tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86108432619595006502024-03-08T04:20:43.805-05:00What It's Like For MeComing To Terms With HumannessJanis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.comBlogger31125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-14509364399985862722010-12-06T11:34:00.005-05:002010-12-06T12:26:02.006-05:00Easing Into Laid-back LivingIf you live in Florida you probably have them. Items you wish you could move to a safe place every summer and can't--or don't because it isn't practical--but you would hate to lose them should a hurricane blast your home to soggy smithereens.<br />
<br />
For me they include the china I've collected for 14 years and twin mahogany breakfronts I bought on the lawn of a Naples beach house back in 1988. It was a relaxed, informal home with an enormous front-to-back living room and a swordfish above the fireplace. Sadly, the place was torn down years ago.<br />
<br />
But last summer, as I prepared to leave our Naples condominium for our cottage up north, I felt uneasy about some items I hadn't worried about before. Then, I felt shallow and guilty for feeling uneasy, since they were just, well, clothes.<br />
<br />
I confessed my secret to a friend who said, "I love my clothes. All of them. I can't imagine parting with a thing."<br />
<br />
Neither, frankly, could I. Well, yes I could, because I do give away things over time--what I don't wear anymore--but not everything at once. It's taken me 35 years to find my style and the items that express it; many of those items I bought on sale. The thought of starting over again makes me almost possessed.<br />
<br />
So possessed that one pair of shoes--four and a half-inch sandals that originally retailed for $395 and I got for under $20--I put in an upstairs shower stall, since I thought that was the most hurricane-proof spot in our condominium. Even worse, I'd had them for more than two years and still hadn't worn them. I was saving them for something "special."<br />
<br />
I bring this up now, months before leaving for the north again, because an issue occurred with my clothes recently--or, actually, with the number of clothes crammed on the rod within my closet. The spindly thing not only had bowed, it almost entirely had pulled out of the wall.<br />
<br />
I asked my husband if he could fix it and this was the week he assessed the problem. But instead of blaming the rod and installation, he turned to me and said, "You might want to consider getting rid of some things--and not getting anymore." <br />
<br />
To which he added, "A general rule is an inch between each hanger."<br />
<br />
It was a nice idea--and not surprising coming from someone with at least two inches between each item that hangs in his closet. But in my closet? Not even possible.<br />
<br />
He had a valid point, though. It wasn't as if I needed so many things. I'd even turned that upstairs shower stall into a second closet--yet something else to feel guilty about.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless he fixed the problem--without doling out any more advice--and now each morning I gaze at a neatly shored-up-in-two-places clothing rod. Of course, when I pull something out, it's as wrinkled as if I'd wadded it up in a tiny ball.<br />
<br />
But as I told my husband, people shouldn't build a thing to hang clothes on unless it will hold as many clothes as a person can hang on it. Now, thanks to him, it does exactly that. Relieved doesn't even come close to expressing how that makes me feel. <br />
<br />
Of course, summer will be here before I know it, along with another hurricane season; and I don't want to worry again. I want to be laidback. Relaxed. Like that beach house--the one where I found my mahogany breakfronts.<br />
<br />
Sand between the sofa cushions, shells lined up on windowsills, windows flung open to capture the breeze. At least, that's how I imagine it was--how they were. How I imagine I can be.<br />
<br />
Free.<br />
<br />
Why live in Florida if I'm worried the beach will be tracked in my house--or a storm will blow it and my possessions to sea? <br />
<br />
A beach person can't be bothered about that, not if she wants to enjoy her life. She can't let her possessions possess her.<br />
<br />
For starters, I took those sandals out of the shower stall and wore them finally. <br />
<br />
Twice.Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-3667251138425147252010-11-22T14:52:00.001-05:002010-11-22T16:37:22.520-05:00Self-Sufficient--Or Just Too Proud?I would like to believe that my stubborn independence is due to my DNA. That my genes are the reason why, at 3 a.m., instead of calling a friend to take me to the emergency room, I dialed 911. <br />
<br />
Why would I expect anybody else to do what I could arrange for myself, even if insurance didn't cover it?<br />
<br />
Would my Mississippi great grandparents on my father's side ever have expected such help? All they had was hope and guts but still they claimed their government land during the brutal 1800s Oklahoma land runs. And on those 80 acres, they birthed nine children, grew corn and cotton, raised hogs and chickens and picked and canned wild blackberries. Their homesteader existence was reaped and sowed on indomitable self-sufficiency.<br />
<br />
But also on common sense--which is why my wishful thinking about my DNA doesn't hold water.<br />
<br />
In my great grandparents' time people had to be practical, so they understood the value of neighborliness--not just because it was the kind thing to do, but also because it was crucial to survival. If someone needed his strawberries harvested, my grandmother and her siblings were called on to pick them and were paid in berries instead of cash.<br />
<br />
Connectedness was as vital as each person's independence. The two went hand in hand, creating a community that was stronger than the individuals alone. It took great strength to be self-reliant, but it also took strength to stifle pride and ask for help when needed.<br />
<br />
Three generations later, community connectedness necessarily faded as my father pursued an upwardly mobile corporate career that uprooted his family regularly. So I never witnessed my parents ask for help when I was growing up--especially not at 3 a.m. What they thought they could handle amongst our family, they handled. What they believed they could afford to pay for, they bought.<br />
<br />
Consequently, we didn't borrow sugar from a neighbor or hire a therapist when someone was down. But we did pay housekeepers and hairdressers for their services and, briefly, a cook--until my mother discovered the woman fried everything and my father had high cholesterol. <br />
<br />
And of course we hired movers. By the time I was 16, we'd lived in three countries, six cities and nine residences.<br />
<br />
Constant displacement became so natural that between the ages of 21 and 29--before I settled into the condominium that my husband and I now occupy--I moved eight more times on my own. Two were cross-country, five included a truckload of furniture, and each time I paid professionals to help me. The one exception was after college I asked a brother to drive my car from Pennsylvania to California and, two years later, a college roommate's parents to help sell it. But I was so uncomfortable requesting help outside my family, I'm ashamed to say, that my gratitude was overwhelmingly disproportionate to their generosity--as if denying their assistance made it somehow not real.<br />
Recently, when I told close friends what happened that night at 3 a.m., their reactions were much the same: "Why didn't you call me?" One friend, I was surprised, was even angry.<br />
<br />
But I remember how sick I was. I'd been throwing up so much I was disoriented from depleted sodium and potassium. Even still I defaulted to familiar and called a service for help.<br />
<br />
That was three years ago; I'd do things differently today.<br />
<br />
My self-reliance--and my ability to pay for help--wasn't a sign of strength. At least, it wasn't that night. It was a weakness that looked deceitfully good on the outside but deep down really wasn't. It separated me from the people I don't want to be separated from.<br />
<br />
Not that it's easy asking for help. When I've exhausted my resources and I'm at my most vulnerable, the last thing I want sometimes is for others to know. <br />
<br />
But humility softens my edges, makes me more pliable and opens me up to the opportunity to grow, which I need.<br />
<br />
It also reminds me how equally vulnerable every one of us is--and keeps me from being such a proud pain in the you-know-what.<br />
<br />
Besides, who would want to deal with an ambulance if they didn't absolutely have to?<br />
<br />Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-88969839751963211852010-11-08T13:03:00.002-05:002010-11-16T10:07:50.668-05:00Curbing My Overactive ExpectationsThe grocery store I've been going to for the past 21 years has been remodeled, which I think is great, because it now has more organic items, among other things. The problem is, other people seem to agree--so much so that they must have given up their previous grocery stores to frequent this one instead. And frankly, every time I go to the place it's more crowded than I prefer. So I sometimes have to temper myself when another flock of wide-eyed shoppers bungs up the isles with their carts.<br />
<br />
Of course, I know they're not the real issue. My brother Mark made that clear 34 years ago.<br />
<br />
When he was 19 he sent me a plaque for my 16th birthday. This motto was inscribed on it: “Blessed is he who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed.”<br />
<br />
Mark was and still is notorious for teasing me, so I wasn't sure if he was making a joke or attempting to share something profound. At the time, he was a penniless college student, so an extravagant gift wasn't an option.<br />
<br />
I remember sitting cross-legged on my canopied bed, staring at that shellacked-wood plaque, when it finally dawned on me just how clever my brother was. Maybe he couldn't afford to buy me much, but at least he could give me something that might teach me a lesson in taking responsibility for how I reacted to other people's gifts.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, it didn't exactly sink in.<br />
<br />
If it had, ten years later I might have been able to more graciously receive the gift my husband would give me.<br />
<br />
I was 26 and we were celebrating our one-year anniversary of dating. Tearing open that wrapped box, I expected something as lovely as the Lalique crystal candy dish and pedestal bowl that he'd given me for Christmas six months earlier.<br />
<br />
It wasn't even close. <br />
<br />
I stared at the thing, looked at him and blinked. <br />
<br />
“You mentioned your iron was broken," he said. After which I lectured him on the kinds of gifts girls expected on dating-anniversaries.<br />
<br />
I wasn't able to appreciate that he had actually listened when I told him my iron had broken--or that he was giving me something he thought was meaningful, because it was useful and something I needed. When you're filled with want for pretty and frivolous, you have no space for practical.<br />
<br />
I'm often not aware I still do that--expect something--until some person, place or thing doesn’t exactly match up to what's envisioned in my head. Then I know it. I feel it. It’s as uncomfortable as a too-small shoe.<br />
<br />
A few years ago I ordered a watch from a jewelry store and was told it would arrive in a week. When a week passed by, and I didn’t hear back, I called the store. The salesperson said the watch hadn’t arrived, so she called the watch company, who told her the band I’d chosen had been discontinued; therefore, they couldn’t send the watch.<br />
<br />
So I chose another band and was told the watch would arrive in a week.<br />
<br />
When a week passed by, and I didn’t hear back, I called the store. The salesperson said the watch hadn’t arrived, so she called the watch company, who told her the order had been submitted incorrectly; therefore, they couldn’t send the watch.<br />
<br />
So the salesperson resubmitted the order and told me the watch would arrive in a week.<br />
<br />
You’d think at this point I would have detected a pattern and adjusted my expectations. But I didn’t. I wanted that watch and I wanted it now. It was an established jewelry store, so I assumed they would get their act together and get the watch when they said they would.<br />
<br />
But all my assuming and wanting couldn’t make it so.<br />
<br />
It was three more weeks, six weeks total, before the store received that watch. I can’t remember the reasons they gave for the delays, but in the midst of it all I felt frustrated, irritated, neglected, disappointed and lied to. I could have easily canceled the order, gone somewhere else, chosen a different watch. Or just accepted what was. But I didn't. <br />
<br />
It's so annoying when my brother is right.Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-86170426385456017682010-10-25T13:08:00.004-04:002010-10-25T13:24:16.066-04:00Coping With Rude People...Like MeContrary to how it may seem, I don't purposely try to be thoughtless, aggressive and idiotic. I just come across that way sometimes, for various reasons. Not a great excuse, but it is the truth. Rudeness is a byproduct, not my intention. So I'm always inspired by and grateful for the understanding and patience of others. <br />
<br />
The other day, two girlfriends and I stood still in a restaurant doorway, blocking others from getting in or out. We were so caught up in talking to each other as we started to walk out the door that we never exactly got out the door--proof, obviously, that we need to work on our walk-and-talk-at-the-same-time skills.<br />
<br />
But the woman in front of us was nothing but respectful, even cheerful, when she smiled and said, "Excuse me." And personally, her lightheartedness about our gaffe was a much more persuasive inducement for me to pay attention next time than had she been rude back.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I've done much worse than prevent the hungry from getting to a meal. Eight or so years ago I decided to drive to the post office before going to a meeting. But because I didn't leave myself ample time, I was worried about being late. Consequently, I was frenzied, and I zoomed my Jeep past a pedestrian in the post office parking lot, nearly giving her a coronary.<br />
<br />
I apologized as soon as I got out of the car. She accepted, but not before giving me a well-deserved talking-to. Things would have gone a lot differently had I taken a moment to stop and think before leaving home that morning. I'd have scrapped the ridiculous post office idea, driven directly to my meeting and that woman would have never experienced a lunatic in a WMD.<br />
<br />
But as I learned from a man at my cable company, kindness does wonders for enlightening we serenity thieves.<br />
<br />
Last year, when my husband and I repeatedly had trouble with our cable, phone and Internet service--at times we had no phone for chunks of a day--I felt forsaken in a sea of corporate circumvention. Twice technicians had come to our home during a period of several months, and the problem had always reoccurred a week or two after they left. In between, again and again, I was on my cell phone with and put on hold by service representatives, supervisors and technicians.<br />
<br />
Aside from nobody knowing how to fix our problem, there never seemed to be a record of previous phone conversations. So I continually re-explained my problem, only to hear the same advice over and over again.<br />
<br />
Through it all, not once did anyone say, "Wow, that's terrible. I'm sorry you've had to go through that."<br />
<br />
Instead, everyone at the other end of the line sounded just as automated and unfeeling as the recorded voice I repeatedly endured before reaching an actual person.<br />
<br />
I felt so frustrated, helpless and irritated that by the time I got to my final service representative on the phone--whom I will forever refer to as Oh Thank You God--I was not in a good mood. My words were not unkind, but I'm sure my tone wasn't patient or peaceful. Actually, there's a pretty good chance I came off pissed off since, well, I was pissed off. And the fact is, feeling and behaving pissed off offers nothing positive to the planet.<br />
<br />
But instead of acting affronted--or worse, like a soulless, mechanical robo-rep--this man was serene. It wasn't what he said, but more how he said what he said. He was genuinely sympathetic, and he made me feel like he considered me a person, not a faceless whiny customer. That shocked me, so I apologized. Come to think of it, I even had tears. <br />
<br />
And wouldn't you know, the service technician he sent to our home fixed our cable issue.<br />
<br />
If only we all were as compassionate as Oh Thank You God when faced with an ill-mannered person. Because, like it or not, no matter how much we wish we could fix or correct other people's rude behavior, we can't. Rude people are the only ones who can fix and correct themselves.<br />
<br />
And yes, I am working on that.Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-46726100050325148562010-10-11T13:48:00.006-04:002010-10-11T14:38:32.789-04:00Retired And Too Old, Say What?Friends had warned me it would be coming soon, and I didn't believe them. Was sure they had to be mistaken.<br />
<br />
But they weren't. <br />
<br />
The AARP solicitation for membership came two months and a day before my 50th birthday, and I was stunned this group was contacting me. I knew the multi-word name this acronym stood for, and the R really annoyed me.<br />
<br />
I am nowhere near being "out of use", "too old for work", "withdrawn from circulation", "isolated", "removed" or whatever else that dictionaries call retired these days.<br />
<br />
I am also not old, let alone "too old," even if plenty of younger people may think I am.<br />
<br />
At least, I certainly don't feel like it. I feel 21. Actually, make that better than 21, because I now have the benefit of 29 additional years of experience. <br />
<br />
Since my birthday back in August, two more pieces of AARP mail arrived. One was lumped in with a free mailer. The other I don't recall. And I can't tell you what was inside either one, because I never opened them; I shredded them. But in the first envelope I received before my birthday, there wasn't a note or letter. Nothing that even said, "Well done." Only a bland white form with boxes to tick--membership categories of one ($16), three ($43) or five ($63) years.<br />
<br />
And for Heaven's sake, doesn't turning half a century warrant more than that? <br />
<br />
All due respect to AARP, but it felt like yet another reminder of how little our culture values growing older--except for the profit that might be made from it.<br />
<br />
And as far as I'm concerned, entering this third quarter of life--this autumn, if you will--is such an important occasion, it's worthy of more than a membership solicitation. It deserves a rite of passage. <br />
<br />
After all, now is the time when we finally can reap what we have sewn, so it's cause for celebration. Maybe even a coronation. <br />
<br />
I've always liked the idea of a crown.<br />
<br />
Okay, granted, maybe that's over the top. But author and gardener Rose G. Kinglsey didn't seem to think so--at least, not when it came to autumn in her garden.<br />
<br />
"Autumn is indeed the crowning glory of the year," she wrote, "bringing us the fruition of months of thought and care and toil." <br />
<br />
And are we human beings not just as worthy of such ennobling attention?<br />
<br />
Because I, too, have had months of thought and care and toil--50 years worth. I have also finally fruited. Or, at least, have begun fruiting. So I know things. Cool things. Things you can't possibly know unless you've actually lived through them.<br />
<br />
I may not have the physical youth I had at 21, but I possess so much more, mentally, emotionally and spiritually. That's why I don't wish to be categorized as old or retired or otherwise. It feels ageist, as if my culture is unceremoniously shoving me into a box--to be kept there until 65, when I will then be flopped into another box labeled "Senior Citizen," until I am ultimately dumped in that final box, which ends up in the ground.<br />
<br />
And maybe that's my issue with all of this--the unceremonious-ness of it all. Where is our society's recognition of the joy and honor of the journey of aging?<br />
<br />
Ceremonies and rituals focus our attention on the divinity of something--the deeper, more significant meaning of it, and they show our gratitude for what we've been given. Their purpose is to empower our imagination and awaken our spirit. And when endorsed by the larger community, they affirm our value within --and support by--that community.<br />
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Unfortunately, when the only thing my community does is solicit me for money when I reach part two of my life, I don't feel empowered, affirmed or supported. <br />
<br />
But I know this group didn't mean to offend me. I also know that I'm responsible for my reaction to their solicitation. No person or group can make me feel insulted unless I allow it.<br />
<br />
Our society is what it is; I have to accept that. And if I want to feel empowered, affirmed and supported as I grow older, I will have to create those feelings for myself. Doing things on my own always makes me stronger anyway.<br />
<br />
So…where to get that crown?Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-16510102126439598202010-09-27T12:32:00.002-04:002010-09-27T13:23:59.284-04:00When Normal People Are Mean To Animals, What's To Be Done With Ourselves?My husband tells me a cat has begun hanging around his place of business and the staff has taken to feeding it.<br />
<br />
“What does Fluffy think about that?” I ask. She's the Himalayan they rescued 10 years ago.<br />
<br />
“She hasn't noticed yet,” he says, his eyebrows arching as they often do when he detects the need for surplus caution.<br />
<br />
I brought our dog Keeley to visit him once. Took her off the leash, unaware of Fluffy's presence. She was a rescue herself, with two docile cat-sisters at home. So she didn't know any better when she cornered Fluffy who, naturally, hissed and struck out. Keeley, who was five times Fluffy's size, screeched away terrified, her bowel contents spluttering behind.<br />
<br />
For obvious reasons we didn't put them together again. <br />
<br />
But Fluffy's cast-iron proprietorialness—-and her latest feline rival--speaks to the potential in all humans to be generous-hearted to animals.<br />
<br />
Or at the very least to be kind instead of cruel.<br />
<br />
And lately, I needed to be reminded of this--that people aren't inherently hateful. It's when they're hurting that they also hurt others.<br />
<br />
How else to explain why Mary Bale, when she walked home from work last month in Coventry, England, put a cat named Lola in a garbage can?<br />
<br />
Had Lola's owners not had a surveillance camera, they probably never would have learned why she spent 15 hours imprisoned and covered in her own excrement.<br />
<br />
Lola's owners posted the footage on YouTube, and a viewer identified Bale. Last week, she was charged with two counts of animal cruelty; her court date is set for October 19.<br />
<br />
But the reality is, while publicity surrounding Bale's offense may be fading, her motivation for doing what she did probably isn't. Unless she undertakes her own personal inventory, there's a good chance it never will.<br />
<br />
And that worries me. Lola wasn't physically harmed, but Bale's story feels more treacherous than the blatant animal cruelty of the Michael Vick variety.<br />
<br />
Bale doesn't look like someone who would purposely hurt an animal. And her act appears eerily reminiscent of a scene from an adult animated series like Family Guy. <br />
<br />
Actually, what happens on Family Guy is even more sickening. In an episode originally aired on April 19, 2009, they torture and kill a pet cat with a razor.<br />
<br />
So I can't help wondering, When did cartoons and normal people become so dangerous?<br />
<br />
Didn't Bale understand a cat is a sentient person? Would be crushed once dumped in a garbage truck? At the very least couldn't she feel at her core how mean it is to imprison any creature against its will?<br />
<br />
True, our society mistreats animals every day--as commodities in our quest to feed, heal and beautify humans. But there is increasing public pressure to improve the lives of these animals by employing kinder, more responsible practices or eliminating animal use completely. Not perfect, but definitely progress. Proof that humans understand no animal is "just an animal." They feel pain and fear and stress like us.<br />
<br />
In the video footage of Bale, it's apparent that she knew what she was about to do was unacceptable. She glanced up and down the sidewalk while she pet Lola--then picked her up, dropped her in the can, closed the lid and left. <br />
<br />
Bale thought before she acted. But for her, maybe it was too late. Whatever hurt had been building up within her was so far gone she snapped.<br />
<br />
And whenever we react in a way that's incongruous to what's actually in front of us--or do things out of character, which is what Bale claimed she did--it can mean we've denied our feelings for too long and, ultimately, displaced them. Sometimes to a place perceived as more safe, such as a pet or spouse or child.<br />
<br />
It's frustrating to think her story fades here. Hopefully it can be something more. A turning point for her. <br />
<br />
An opportunity for myself.<br />
<br />
I wouldn't put a pet in a garbage can, but I have and still could unleash hurts and resentments with cruel, avenging words and actions.<br />
<br />
But none of us is a lost cause. I can do better tomorrow.<br />
<br />
So can Mary Bale.Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-41662570209499108422010-09-13T12:07:00.001-04:002010-09-13T12:12:08.204-04:00Seven Dumb Things I Did and Didn't Do Freshman Year of CollegeMy niece has begun her freshman year of college, so every few days I scan her Facebook page for recent news. Finally the first photograph is posted. She's standing arm in arm with six new girlfriends, excited, happy, hopeful. It's titled, with supersized conviction, “WE ARE...”<br />
<br />
That was me, I think to myself. And then, before I know it, I'm Monday morning quarterbacking my own freshman year 32 years ago.<br />
<br />
Hindsight is like that. It thumps you on the head after you've messed up and can't do anything about it—except, of course, to try to not repeat the same mistakes and, if possible, to pass it on. Like a road, experience begs to be shared.<br />
<br />
And so, what follows below is for all college freshmen. They'll know whether they can apply it to their lives, now that they're traveling the same road I did.<br />
<br />
After all, WE ARE...each on our own individual journeys, with our own lessons to learn.<br />
<br />
1. I gave a part of myself away for a friend. She was already in a sorority, so I pledged hers instead of the one I wanted. I was afraid if I didn't our relationship would suffer. And it might have, but a true friend wants me to do what's best for me.<br />
<br />
Fortunately, it was and is a great sorority. My favorite actress is even a sister, as is an amazing U.S. First Lady. But still I wonder what might have been had I followed my heart, not fear.<br />
<br />
2. I didn't have the courage to be honest. I agreed to a date with a guy I didn't want to go out with and then phoned him to cancel it. Worse, because our conversation was growing long, I began unscrewing the mouthpiece on the receiver to create interference on the line. Then I hung up, hoping he'd assume I had telephone issues, instead of a wussy personality. No surprise, he never called back.<br />
<br />
3. I ate to ease boredom or tension, even when I wasn't hungry—or skipped meals altogether--ignoring my body's innate rhythm. Eventually it became a habit, and by the time I graduated I'd forgotten how to eat naturally and healthfully. It was years before I finally learned to trust and follow my instinct again.<br />
<br />
4. For fun I tried smoking, but got hooked. I quit 10 years later when I got asthma. I was luckier than my father; he died of emphysema. <br />
<br />
5. I didn't keep in touch with my old friends and eventually lost contact completely. Thanks to Facebook, I've begun renewing some of those friendships. But I've missed out on sharing so many weddings, births and more, which I wish I hadn't.<br />
<br />
6. I parroted other people's ideas instead of forming my own. I even skipped classes, as well as the assigned books, and memorized Cliff Notes. If it hadn't been for a professor early in my sophomore year, I might have continued on that path. But she didn't want her students to repeat by rote what others thought; she wanted to know what we thought. She cared about our opinions, what we actually believed, and it changed me forever. It taught me the importance and value of questioning and challenging, forming my own ideas. Of staying teachable--even by those I don't particularly like--but also of making my own conclusions. Ultimately, adopting another person's concepts without question reflects a lack of self-respect. <br />
<br />
7. I judged a stranger's character by his (future) profession--and didn't choose a public place to meet for a first date. He came to my dorm after dark; we walked to a quiet spot on campus, sat down on the grass and began talking. One thing led to another and we were kissing. Before I knew it, I was sprawled out flat with him on top of me. No guy had ever moved that quickly before; I knew something was wrong. I told him I wasn't comfortable, and told him again, but he wouldn't listen. Finally I threatened to scream if he didn't get off me--which he did, thank God, and I never saw him again. But here's a scary thought: He was a medical student, studying to be an Ob/Gyn. Or so he said.Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-3771689363803590282010-08-30T12:10:00.003-04:002010-08-30T14:08:31.354-04:00Goldilocks And The Three Computer ScreensWho knew a thumb-pecked, 22-word text message that had nothing to do with me could have so much to do with what I needed to do to heal? <br />
<br />
A friend who's on a boat that's goodness knows where or how many time zones away sent me the following message with her iPhone: “I've been out of sorts here this summer, struggling to find my peace. I'm going to reinvent myself this year, I've decided.” <br />
<br />
Even in her anguish my friend was determined to adjust to the current that was troubling her—and to any future currents as well. <br />
<br />
Too bad I wasn't doing the same. I'd been out of sorts for days, but instead of acknowledging my feelings so I could do something about them, I'd been sulking. And stewing. And whining. Basically, not adjusting or reinventing.<br />
<br />
When my friend's message arrived I was borrowing a computer--a second laptop my husband already had and thought I might want to use, rather than bring mine from Naples. We are staying at our northern cottage for two months, and hauling one less item on the airplane had seemed like a good idea. After all, a laptop is a laptop, right?<br />
<br />
Well, evidently not. After three days of using the thing, my picky, sensitive Goldilocks eyes felt like vice grips had a hold of them. <br />
<br />
We tried adjusting everything we could think of--the brightness of the laptop screen, the size, style and thickness of the font, but the words and screen still felt harsh and blurry and grating. <br />
<br />
Wearing my glasses didn't help, and adjusting my seat height, so I viewed the screen from a different angle, gave me a backache.<br />
<br />
What's more, the cursor-pointing device, a touchpad, was too far from where I naturally positioned my fingertips on the keyboard, so my left hand ached. Plus, the delete, control and right-arrow keys were not where I was used to them being.<br />
<br />
My husband offered to switch the mouse from a touchpad to TrackPoint—a rubber nub in the middle of the keyboard. <br />
<br />
“But I haven't used that kind of mouse in five years,” I whimpered. “I'll just have to get used to a touchpad again when I get back to my own laptop.”<br />
<br />
True, my own laptop was as slow as a slug, the memory was almost used up and the battery was useless, but I knew the position of every key without looking and it never made me ache. <br />
<br />
And I anguished over it. I mean, really anguished over it. Which, clearly, wasn't helping. Nor was continually projecting into the future: What if it's like this the whole eight weeks we're here?<br />
<br />
To make matters worse, I processed my tormented and strangled thoughts vocally, and judging from the look on my husband's face whenever I opened my mouth it had to have stressed him out.<br />
<br />
I was so out of sorts, in fact, that by day number three I even turned down a solution. My husband proposed hooking up the laptop to a freestanding monitor. All we needed was a $20 keyboard.<br />
<br />
Since the laptop screen seemed to be my issue, a different screen would be logical to try, right?<br />
<br />
Yes, if I still possessed an iota of common sense, which I didn't. Because I believed I'd complained too much, I was now consumed with guilt. And guilt, when left unchecked, can do odd things. Such as convince a person she doesn't deserve a shiny new keyboard; she deserves to suffer.<br />
<br />
Consequently, for the next ten, excruciating days I sucked it up and toughed it out, although not very serenely.<br />
<br />
And then, on day 13 it occurred to me that being a martyr was not, as they say, working for me, and maybe I should learn from my friend's experience. <br />
<br />
I am now typing on that $20 keyboard, gazing at a freestanding monitor and my hand and eyes don't ache.<br />
<br />
And while I did waste two weeks acting like an eight-year-old, at least I finally focused on what was in front of me, so I could find a solution.<br />
<br />
And give my husband some peace. <br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseydonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-16910468433733313382010-08-16T11:21:00.007-04:002010-08-17T12:45:03.648-04:00Tribute To A Kitchen GhostThere is an intermittent odor in the kitchen at our summer cottage that smells like something, well, fishy I guess is the only way to describe it. <br />
<br />
It was there again this morning briefly, as if swept in by a breeze. Only, there is never a breeze. It always manifests out of still air, like invisible fog, and then fades.<br />
<br />
I'll never forget the first time I encountered it 13 years ago. How I scrunched up my face in awed disgust: “What is that?” I asked my husband.<br />
<br />
It was the winter after we were married and the first time he introduced me to this place many miles north of our Naples, Florida, home. And to its other inhabitant. <br />
<br />
“It's sometimes in the upstairs bathroom, too,” my husband said, his expression wavering between humor and bafflement. His father had also smelled it, he added. <br />
<br />
“What is it?” I persisted.<br />
<br />
“Don't know,” he said. “But it's been here for years."<br />
<br />
Maybe it's because I'm female, but I decided I knew what it was: another female, in spirit form. I asked my husband if he agreed, but he still said, “I don't know.”<br />
<br />
A week later we left the cottage and stayed the night at my mother-in-law's. When my husband flipped open his suitcase, that same peculiar stench assaulted us. We had both kept our clothes in the same closet at the cottage, but only his had acquired the odor. I was even more convinced we were dealing with a ghost, but my husband remained non-committal.<br />
<br />
I'd never encountered a ghost before, but I'd known people who had. A Spanish teacher in high school had often regaled us with the ornery escapades of the apparition in her home, which she didn't see, only heard. It banged on pipes and turned on water faucets but never caused any harm. Years later, a friend often told me about the male ghost who came and sat on the porch of his Naples beach cottage and never spoke. <br />
<br />
So I've always thought...hoped ghosts were mostly benign. I admit I've asked our cottage ghost, if she should decide to show herself to please do it slowly--and preferably not in the dark or when my husband is gone, so she doesn't scare the daylights out of me. Unfortunately or fortunately, she hasn't appeared.<br />
<br />
With each passing year her frequency and malodor have lessened. And my husband has noticed she makes herself known anymore only when I'm at the cottage, either with him or alone. I'm not really sure what she thinks of me, but I've come to believe her intentions toward him are protective and motherly.<br />
<br />
This morning, I began thinking about what to make him for dinner and, swish, she was there. Another time, we were teasing each other in the kitchen and immediately the entire room reeked. Each time she manifests, it's as if to say she approves of our union. At least, I hope that's what it means.<br />
<br />
Because, for awhile a year ago something here wasn't approving of me. <br />
<br />
One day out of nowhere it was as if a jumbo jet had landed in our living room, but only I could smell it. For a week the exhaust fumes would appear out of nowhere and follow me around the cottage. At times they were so intense I was sure my husband and I were being poisoned. <br />
<br />
I begged it to leave us alone. When it didn't, I asked my husband to have the furnace checked--which he did, but the furnace man couldn't smell anything and found nothing wrong. In the end, it was only after I left the cottage that it left, too.<br />
<br />
Still, I feel blessed. I've always believed there is more to this life than what my five senses can physically ascertain. Now I have proof of that—even if it is proof only I trust.<br />
<br />
Maybe that's best. It keeps me reliant on my own innate sense of things; strengthens my own capacity to recognize truth in spite of what others believe—to know that my nose just knows.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Do you trust in your own innate sense of things and, if not, why?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-39108892522370804892010-08-02T13:19:00.000-04:002010-08-02T13:19:07.837-04:00Being Okay With Not Being The Favorite“Happy Birthday to the Greatest Aunt in The World!”<br />
<br />
That’s what my 12-year-old niece wrote on the card she made for my 44th birthday six years ago. I found it the other day while attempting to organize my desk, and I still remember how proud I felt when I first opened it--and how relieved. I'd finally won the race.<br />
<br />
It just goes to show what a scary place your mind can become when you're obsessed with winning and fearful of losing a little girl's affection. <br />
<br />
My niece was four when her mother, my ex-sister-in-law, remarried. And with her new step-father bringing his family into the fold, she would now have God knows how many grandparents, five aunts (and each of their current or future husbands as uncles), four uncles (and each of their current or future wives as aunts), two brothers, one sister, two fathers, and one mother—or two, if my brother ever remarried. <br />
<br />
How, I worried, was she ever going to remember me?<br />
<br />
It was no wonder when my niece was 10, and I asked if her friends had any pretty mommies with which to fix up her daddy, the smile on her face disappeared and she said, “No, I don’t want any more relatives.”<br />
<br />
It's probably because I have no children of my own—or any other nieces or nephews--but I have felt very attached to my niece since the moment I met her. She was two months old, and I--who always thought animals were cuter than babies--was stunned by my feelings toward her. She looked so much like my brother. My heart hurt it was so full of love for her.<br />
<br />
But when her mother remarried, I wondered how I would nurture a relationship with a child who lived so far away and whom I would see once or twice a year. And what if I missed a year?<br />
<br />
Which is exactly what happened when my niece turned eight. I usually saw her every Easter, when her family visited Florida for spring break. But they weren't able to come that year. <br />
<br />
When I did see her again, two years had passed. I was sure she wouldn’t remember me. We were at an Easter egg hunt, and when I saw her standing off to the side, clutching a wicker basket with her tiny hands, something tightened around my throat. <br />
<br />
“I’m your Aunt Janis,” I said, crouching down to meet her at eye level. “Remember me?”<br />
<br />
“Oh, Aunt Janis,” she said, her enormous grin melting my insecurity, “Of course I remember you.”<br />
<br />
But a few days later, when she seemed so disappointed to learn that I was no longer her “relative with the most pets”, I worried she might have lost her only reason to remember me in the future. The last time she had visited, my husband and I were the rescuers of two cats, one dog, two parakeets and three fish. But we had recently found better homes for the birds and fish, making us an unremarkable three-pet family. <br />
<br />
So from that moment on I felt a compulsion to run the race faster, especially since she didn't seem to care about talking on the phone or corresponding by e-mail. I thought I had to always give the best gifts, be the most fun and the nicest. And it was exhausting, my constant fear of tripping, falling and losing--if not this race, then the next.<br />
<br />
It was also insane, treating someone I loved as something to be won and others she loved as opponents to be beaten. As if I really had anything to do with how she felt about me anyway. I wasn't that powerful. I couldn’t make my niece love me.<br />
<br />
That’s the chance we take when we love someone, that we may not be loved back.<br />
<br />
I retired from the Greatest Aunt race the year I got that handmade birthday card. I never liked competition anyway.<br />
<br />
Recently I decided to write my niece a real letter—instead of an e-mail or leaving a comment on her Facebook page. <br />
And I'll be okay if she doesn't write back.<br />
<br />
Or think I'm the greatest aunt in the world anymore.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Are you able to love your friends and family without competing for their affections and, if not, why? <br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseydonym with your post? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-2913733039016006942010-07-19T12:30:00.003-04:002010-07-19T15:56:35.622-04:00Defending My Character The Not-So-Good WayIt is said that character is much easier kept than recovered. Maybe that's why I pounced on my friend the other day when she said something about me I thought was untrue. <br />
<br />
But it was like attacking a mouse with a nuclear bomb. There are gentler ways to fend off possibly harmful things--which cause less damage to the mouse and to myself.<br />
<br />
What this friend did, actually, was try to pay me a compliment. Well, she thought it was a compliment. I didn't. She said I said something two years ago that encouraged her to make a positive change in herself. <br />
<br />
She couldn't remember exactly what I said or what it was that she changed, but from what she could recall, I had begun by confessing one of my shortcomings in front of our weekly luncheon group. And then--and this is what got my ire up--she said I said, "Someone else here has the same shortcoming."<br />
<br />
I was stunned. "I would never say that!" I said--or shrieked. I'm not sure which.<br />
<br />
Now, the reason I believed I would never say such a thing was because I try to live my life in a manner that will cause me the least guilt and the most serenity. For that reason, I try to say what I mean, mean what I say and not say it mean--in other words, communicate my feelings clearly but gently.<br />
<br />
Publicly accusing some anonymous person of having a shortcoming is not clear and gentle communication--even if it does lead to good consequences. It's miscommunicating and it's mean. Besides, other people's behavior is not my business. My only business, as they say, is what's inside my own Hula-hoop. <br />
<br />
Unfortunately, before I knew better I did miscommunicate. A lot. That's what can happen when you're afraid to express how you feel or you don't know how you feel--you speak vaguely and aren't aware of your motives, and it can sometimes be hurtful. <br />
<br />
Years ago, if someone disagreed with something I said, instead of telling them I felt hurt or judged or attacked, I sometimes retaliated by criticizing their own belief or behavior. It was an aggressive, unfiltered, defensive response, which only created a circle of anger.<br />
<br />
But getting back to my friend's comment. I knew she was trying to compliment, not hurt me. It felt so untrue, though, and I felt so powerless against my other friends believing her that I'm sure smoke would have been puffing out of my ears had I been a cartoon character.<br />
<br />
After she left, I was still so upset that I turned to another friend at the table and asked, "How would you feel if someone said you said something you were 100 percent certain you didn't say?"<br />
<br />
My friend smiled at my pathetically contorted question and then replied, “Well...I guess I couldn't be 100 percent certain."<br />
<br />
It was definitely not what I wanted her to tell me, and it took a couple of hours for me to squelch my pride and admit it, but I knew she was right. No human--and yes, that included me--was perfect.<br />
<br />
Even if my mind is thinking one thing, my mouth can be saying something else. Not purposely, but because I don't function at 100 percent capacity. No human does.<br />
<br />
No matter how carefully I try to communicate clearly, I may not. The words may come out wrong or other people may not receive them as I intend. Even friends.<br />
<br />
The only thing I can do is try not to hurt people while I'm being less than perfect. And for starters, that would mean improving my delivery the next time I think I need to stick up for myself.<br />
<br />
"If I did say that, I wish I hadn't" or "I didn't mean to" would have been a lot more truthful and less confrontational than all guns firing at my friend.<br />
<br />
As soon as I got home, I called and apologized and she accepted.<br />
<br />
Let's hope the next time I consider speaking up for myself I at least have more humility--and a cork handy.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: When you speak up for yourself, do you do it gently, with a humble mind and, if not, why?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-34541340722850993952010-07-05T11:00:00.010-04:002010-07-05T13:24:16.450-04:00Miracles Disguised as Everyday LifeIt was a simple question. You'd think I could have answered it without getting so emotional.<br />
<br />
I was at a dinner party, talking with the now ex-boyfriend of a friend of mine, and somehow we got onto the topic of miracles--and how ridiculous he thought it was to believe in them. He rattled off a list of reasons why they didn't exist and, then, looking so impressed with himself you'd think he'd invented the McNugget, he said, "Do you need to believe in miracles?” <br />
<br />
I will never forget how small I felt--and how defensive. The word "need" is what got to me. It made me feel so weak. This was about 12 or 15 years ago, and back then, I cared if someone thought my spiritual beliefs were foolish.<br />
<br />
"Yes, I couldn't live in a world without miracles," I said. As if the supernatural needed my defense.<br />
<br />
I didn't know that other people's disbelief couldn't negate my own--or hurt my chances of someday experiencing a miracle myself.<br />
<br />
As to why I'm writing about this today, after all these years, it's because it now seems extraordinary to me that I wasn't yet certain if I had ever experienced a miracle. I had once witnessed my own car crash in my mind--only seconds before it happened in real life--saving me from what might have been a deadly accident. What more proof did I need? <br />
<br />
Evidently, much more.<br />
<br />
And of all things, it would take a spiny, wild creature for me to grasp that miracles don't always look miraculous initially.<br />
<br />
My husband and I were at a cottage in the northeast when my hands became so puffy, I could barely get my rings on and off. On the third or fourth day of this, as I walked my dog through the woods, I began to wonder if all the potato chips I'd been eating had something to do with it. I'd never had an issue with salt before, but maybe my metabolism had changed.<br />
<br />
I was thinking about this as I came around a bend in the path, and had to stop because of a large, snoozing porcupine. I'd never seen even a bird or squirrel along this path before, since a nearby cottager always let his dogs run loose, and they scared off anything that ran or flew. When it eventually lumbered away, I felt lucky to have witnessed it.<br />
<br />
A day or so later, as I browsed the racks of the tiny bookshop in this town of 2,900--something I did often and with no real aim in mind--I noticed the book Animal Speak* perched face-front on a shelf. It sounded interesting, so I opened it to the first page:<br />
<br />
"The natural world and the animals in it speak to us everyday…When we know what to look for, we can use them as omens…in the development of true prophecy and higher perception."<br />
<br />
I flipped through the book and skimmed through the section on the porcupine, stopping at the part that explained: "There may be a tendency to…overindulge in salt."<br />
<br />
I was shocked that a book I accidentally happened upon was clearly answering the question I'd been pondering. <br />
<br />
Just as significant was what I read next: "When porcupine shows up, take a look at your life…Are you overly sensitive to the barbs of others? Porcupines…can teach you how to protect the inner child from all of life's barbs."<br />
<br />
Was I overly sensitive? Ever since I could remember I had allowed other people's critical opinions to discourage and at times paralyze me--had even allowed them to cause me to question my own spiritual beliefs.<br />
<br />
This was such needed medicine, and the coincidence was so significant, I knew it was something I had to acknowledge. Granted, it wasn't the parting of the seas, but to me, it was a mini miracle--a God Manufactured Coincidence, some would say.<br />
<br />
That autumn was the first and last time I had puffy fingers--I gave up the nightly potato chips. It was also the last I saw of the porcupine.<br />
<br />
I know it came into my life to make me aware of the presence of God's magic all around me--and the importance of not having preconceived notions about what it looks or feels like.<br />
<br />
I have to stay open to anything. Whether it's a feeling, a vision or a voice. <br />
<br />
Or even a porcupine.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Do you recognize evidence of God Manufactured Coincidences in your life and, if so, how?<br />
<br />
*Animal Speak: The Spiritual & Magical Powers of Creatures Great & Small, by Ted Andrews.<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-71916676711697982642010-06-21T11:00:00.004-04:002010-07-04T22:03:37.692-04:00Skinny, But Not A Freak"How does that go?" my friend began, a smile creeping onto her face. "Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth?"<br />
<br />
"Yes, well, I hope it's skinny people, too," I grumbled, knowing exactly what she was doing. I was in the middle of non-meekly ranting about something I still hadn't accepted, and both of us knew at the rate I was going the only thing I was destined to get was something stress-related.<br />
<br />
But I was tired of the media referring to certain celebrities and actresses as "skeletons" and possessing "collarbones that could cut glass."<br />
<br />
I was fed up with people assuming that the only reason for these women's thinness was because they engaged in willful starvation or something equally as harmful.<br />
<br />
And it wasn't just the media anymore. Recently one of my other friends had decided she didn't like a movie an actress was in because that actress had become "too skinny."<br />
<br />
The way my friend was talking, you'd have thought this actress had drowned some puppies--or something just as evil. And I couldn't help wondering: When did being thin become sinful? <br />
<br />
Had people forgotten that some humans are genetically thin--and do actually eat at least three meals a day, including fat and carbs?<br />
<br />
Whether this actress was naturally lean, I didn't know. But for a 45-year-old woman, I thought she looked strong and healthy--definitely not "too skinny". And before I knew it, I was defending her.<br />
<br />
I wish I could say it was for altruistic reasons, but it wasn't. It was because of a stranger's comment years ago, which made this issue feel personal.<br />
<br />
I was in my early 30s and working part-time as an on-air host for a visitors'-television channel. For one particular shoot, I was the model for a clothing store.<br />
<br />
The store happened to be in between merchandise shipments, so the staff was having difficulty fitting me. When I finally stepped out of the dressing room to show the store's owner the outfit, a look of disgust flooded her face.<br />
<br />
"No! No! Your chest! Your shoulders!"<br />
<br />
She whirled away from me, snatched a scarf the size of a sofa from one of her staff, bound it around my neck and shoulders, and commanded, "Hide your bones."<br />
<br />
That's when my center shifted from inside of me to somebody else that I didn't even know and I felt like the freak I assumed she thought I was.<br />
<br />
I had never felt that way about myself before. My whole family is genetically slender, so it had always felt natural to me. And as for my shoulders and collarbone, I'd never even noticed them before. But ever since then, they have felt like something that needed to be hidden. <br />
<br />
Recently, after telling a close friend how much my bony shoulders bothered me, she asked me why I didn't simply put on some weight; then they wouldn't be bony anymore. <br />
<br />
But I wasn't looking for advice on how to change what was natural about me in order to make others happy. What I was looking for was how to accept what was natural about me--even if it was different--in order to make myself happy and not feel like a freak.<br />
<br />
There's a philosophical question that goes, "When you dance with a gorilla, how do you know when the dance is over?" <br />
<br />
The answer is, "When the gorilla says so."<br />
<br />
That's how it is with this resentment of mine. It's so big and powerful it will always rule my thoughts and feelings as long as I choose to let it.<br />
<br />
If I want to be at peace with this body, grateful for the health and strength of it--instead of embarrassed because it doesn't match up to what some people think is beautiful or normal--no one can help me but me.<br />
<br />
I have two choices really: I can keep wincing and whining or I can gather the meekness within me, the inner strength and humility, which makes me immune to getting hurt by what others think or say.<br />
<br />
So I can gain the possession and control of my peace in this life on this earth.<br />
<br />
And let the gorilla go.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Are you at peace with the natural shape and size of your body and, if not, why?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-910714330813265882010-06-07T11:00:00.000-04:002010-06-07T11:00:13.613-04:00Shut Up And ListenIt's amazing how denial can keep us believing such wonderful things about ourselves--things that aren't quite true. But just like holding your thumb in front of the moon can make it appear to not be there, it is still there. And eventually we have to face it or suffer the consequences. <br />
<br />
I, personally, can go along for ages sustaining these self-made eclipses. One recent humbling awakening is that I'm not the good listener I thought I was.<br />
<br />
Unbeknownst to me, listening takes a whole lot more than sitting or standing still and pointing myself at somebody. My mind has to do the same thing--and my mouth has to have a cork in it.<br />
<br />
When I'm thinking my own thoughts while someone is talking, I don't hear what they're saying. Likewise, when someone isn't listening to me, so I overcompensate by running at the mouth--in spite of their yawns, their looking away, their eyes glazing over to a dull and stupid stare--that also means I'm not listening.<br />
<br />
Several months ago, at a benefit tea I attend each year for an animal protection society, I did both of these things with a woman in the check-in line who had decided to convince me to adopt a pet.<br />
<br />
I understood her motivation. If people don't adopt the animals that others abandon to shelters, many are put down or, as in the case of this no-kill shelter, live their lives in a sanctuary. That's why my husband and I adopted seven children over the years: four kitties, two birds and one lovably neurotic mixed-breed dog.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, I ended up with asthma and too many trips to the emergency room because of it. And so, when the last of our babies passed away, we didn't adopt another one, even though I wanted to--still want to--because, evidently, the only animals I'm not allergic to are humans and fish.<br />
<br />
But that didn't stop this woman from attempting to change my mind by ticking off a list of hairless, non-allergic breeds and more--even though I explained that I was allergic to those sweeties, too. (It's the saliva and skin oil, not the fur, that appear to be the culprits for me.) <br />
<br />
I wish I had peacefully listened to her. Told her I'd consider her suggestions. But because I still feel ashamed for choosing my own health over a pet in need, I tried to justify myself. I talked so much that I was oblivious to her backing away from me and, eventually, disappearing altogether when I turned to the person at the check-in table.<br />
<br />
Granted, my problem started with justifying myself--something I don't need to do. But it became more exacerbated when I didn't listen to her body language, and the consequences were definitely embarrassing. Unfortunately, not embarrassing enough to change my behavior. <br />
<br />
It wasn't until I witnessed myself not listening to a friend--while our other companion intently listened to her--that I was finally shamed into facing it.<br />
<br />
My friend was talking about her childhood, which reminded me of something in mine. And since I was too busy chewing on my own memory, I totally missed my friend's. And if that weren't enough, I then uncorked this dazzling memory like the kitty that dumps her catch on the ground to show what a cool thing she's found.<br />
<br />
My friend, the gentle spirit that she is, listened to my babbling like a trooper. She showed no signs of my stomping on her or shutting her up. If it weren't for the other friend with us, I'd probably still be unaware of what I did.<br />
<br />
"Not all children have a strong sense of self," the other friend said, looking at the gentle spirit. And then she added, "That must have made you feel very sad and lonely."<br />
<br />
In that moment, as tears welled up in my gentle friend's eyes, I witnessed the magic of affirmation. I saw how one person listening to what another person verbally and nonverbally says, and then repeating it back to her, can help her feel acknowledged and understood.<br />
<br />
So I have decided it's time I worked on removing this shortcoming, and a good place to start is probably with the advice that someone once gave me, but I didn't listen to: <br />
<br />
"Never miss an opportunity to say nothing."<br />
<br />
QUESTION: How well do you listen to others?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)<br />
<br />Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-44879968479787992462010-05-24T11:00:00.002-04:002010-05-24T11:00:04.533-04:00Letting Go of Those I LoveIt's not easy to be serene about something as serious as a needle biopsy, but I'm trying, since someone I love is refusing to have one, even though three different doctors--not to mention her family--have told her she should. <br />
<br />
Believe me, it isn't as if I haven't tried in the past to guilt, scare, humiliate or nag people into doing what they didn't want or weren't ready to do, all because I thought it was best for them. And, of course, they got testy with me for trying to control them, so I got testy back--and more anxious and emotional, as did they.<br />
<br />
In the case of my friend, I know I have to accept her choice. People have a right to treat their bodies as they wish, even if what they choose does appear on the surface to be harmful. I can't deny how helpless and afraid and sad I feel, but all I can do is trust in the value and rightness of her journey--get quiet and centered inside myself, so I'm ready and open to receive the peace and guidance I need.<br />
<br />
Otherwise, I'll just make a mess of things.<br />
<br />
Like I did two years ago, when I witnessed a turtle attempting to cross a 45-mph, six-lane road and then get hit by a car. The way the poor thing tossed and rolled, he looked like a hubcap flung loose from a wheel, so I was stunned when I stopped and discovered he was still alive and didn't even look harmed.<br />
<br />
I carried him to a nearby, undeveloped property, and just before I set him down, I didn't pay attention to his tiny head on that giraffe neck as it snaked out and snapped hold of my finger. His bite was so excruciating that I let him go, but he clung to my finger and dangled in the air. When he finally dropped to the grass, I was still in a frantic haze, but I picked him up and put him further away from the road.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I made a lot of mistakes that were harmful to that turtle and myself. I didn't protect my hands from his mouth--or put him on the ground while he was still attached to my finger--so I may have added to injuries that I couldn't see, when I let him drop. I also didn't have the sense to take him to The Conservancy's wildlife clinic--or even to a vet. Either would have been more sane than putting him in that field.<br />
<br />
I made these mistakes because I charged in on impulse, instead of first pausing, calming down and asking for guidance.<br />
<br />
But the other day, after the third doctor told my friend why she needed a needle biopsy, that a formation in her breast looked suspicious and could be cancer--and yet she still said she didn't want it tested--I didn't charge in on impulse. When we were alone, I looked her in the eye and repeated what the doctor had said, to make sure she truly understood. I told her I had the name of another surgeon she could see, if she wanted another opinion--and that I only wanted her to have the biopsy for the same reason she would want me to have one, if I were in her shoes. <br />
<br />
My friend said she did understand, didn't need another opinion, and preferred not to talk about it anymore. But instead of doing what I have often done, which is to shift up to convince-her-now-or-else gear, something inside me understood I had done all I could; I had to let it go.<br />
<br />
Even as I write this I am shaking my head and sighing. It's my physical way of surrendering my friend--to God and to herself and to her own dignity to do with her life as she wishes.<br />
<br />
This is between the two of them now, and I have no right to interfere with that. All I can do is to try to have some serenity and faith that this is what's best for my friend, whatever the outcome.<br />
<br />
After all, it's what I would want her to do for me. <br />
<br />
QUESTION: How do you respond when those you love don't do what you think is best for them?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your question? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-11648128992017464752010-05-05T12:46:00.000-04:002010-05-05T12:46:43.475-04:00Lies I TellSometimes, writing a personal essay can be like trying to make a pecan pie and ending up with fried chicken. I don't get what I want, but what I need. <br />
<br />
I called a friend yesterday, intending to do some research on self-reliance. We both come from a long line of independent-minded southerners, and I wanted to get her take on things. But in the middle of the conversation, I caught her in a lie that she had been telling for years without realizing. Although it wasn't that important in the larger scheme of things, it struck a cord in me. And after I hung up the phone, I found myself pointing a disapproving finger at her. <br />
<br />
Why would she tell herself and others such a lie for so long? How could she be in such denial? I spent a while fuming and ruminating and wasting perfectly good writing time, until it eventually dawned on me that if I was this aggravated with somebody else's lie-telling, I probably needed to look at myself.<br />
<br />
I didn't particularly like the idea, but I knew I had to consider the possibility that maybe I was spotting in her what I had not come to terms with in myself. Had I ever told myself lies I was unaware of? After some resistance, a thought eventually came crawling to the surface of my conscience. It was a lie I'd been telling about another friend of mine. <br />
<br />
And it was then I knew that this particular essay was not going to be about self-reliance anymore.<br />
<br />
I had never honestly admitted that this old friend and I were not really compatible. In all of the years I had known her, I had enjoyed hearing her stories about the people she knew, the parties she attended and the trips she took. At heart, I am a homebody. My days are spent in front of a computer and my idea of a party is a few close friends around a dinner table. It was fun living vicariously through her and her exciting life.<br />
<br />
But after a while, I began to come away from our get-togethers with an empty sort of feeling. I longed for a deeper, more intimate friendship, yet ours seemed to hover forever at the surface. When I would share personal things about myself, I noticed she would not reciprocate, and sometimes it made me feel as if there was something wrong with me--as if I was wearing only my underwear in public.<br />
<br />
But what had really gnawed at me--and I had chosen to ignore--was that I had become the only one who initiated our getting together anymore. If I didn't call her, I didn't hear from her.<br />
<br />
Until this moment I had denied the significance of this--and it's logical meaning: That maybe my friend had also noticed we had very little in common. It was as if we had both silently agreed to ignore and not mention how different we were. <br />
<br />
When I would not hear from her for six months or more, I would tell myself, She's just busy. Or traveling. Or sick. I wasn't ready to face the possibility that maybe our friendship had run its course.<br />
<br />
Now that I was facing it, I couldn't exactly say she was doing something hurtful. She had every right not to call me if she didn't want to. And besides, by my always calling her, I had enabled her to not have to do the initiating.<br />
<br />
She also had every right not to share her intimate feelings. She was just being true to herself--as I was being true to myself. That's the best that any of us can do for one another.<br />
<br />Luckily I am blessed with other friends with whom I am probably more compatible. With them I don't feel like my underwear is showing, because theirs is showing, too. So I don't have to tell lies to myself to enable me to keep their friendships.<br />
<br />
If I do hear from my old friend, I'll be glad to see her again. But if I don't, I'll know it means we're moving on.<br />
<br />
To new friends and new lessons. And that's good, too.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Are you telling lies to yourself and, if so, what are they and why?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-66907383137814280422010-04-21T11:00:00.002-04:002010-04-21T11:38:11.155-04:00Confessions of a Chameleon"I have tickets to the symphony. Would you like to go?" she asked me after our first lunch together. <br />
<br />
We were standing on the sidewalk outside of a tearoom and I couldn't think of what to say, because I really didn't want to go. I like symphony music, but not watching it performed. So I lied and said, "I'd love to." <br />
<br />
"This is great," she said, "because my husband doesn't like to go and neither do many of my girlfriends, and I always get tickets for the season--and now I have a friend who can go with me."<br />
<br />
"Oh…great," I said, thinking, What on earth have I done?<br />
<br />
What I had done is precisely what I had promised myself I would not do anymore: change my own colors to match those of others.<br />
<br />
Somewhere in my mid 40s, I had finally mustered the courage to start showing the real me. Now I did things like going to lunch with a girlfriend without a stitch of makeup on and fessing up to my secret wishes and fears and shortcomings.<br />
<br />
If you knew me before, you would understand what a feat this has been, because presenting a smudge-free image was fundamental to me.<br />
<br />
And lately, things had been going well enough that being the genuine me seemed almost easy.<br />
<br />
But it's funny how anything is easy when there is nothing to lose and no pain involved. Toss a shiny new person into the picture--and suddenly a new friendship was at risk--and I reached for a pretense like an addict for a fix.<br />
<br />
It isn't her real name, but I'll call her Katherine, and I had recently met her at a benefit luncheon. She was friendly, elegant and cultured, but what had really impressed me was how thoughtful and empathetic she seemed. Yet still I was afraid to be truthful with her.<br />
<br />
A week or so later, as I sat through the performance, I hoped that in the future she would find someone else to go to the symphony with her, and that we could stick to lunches and dinners together. <br />
<br />
But as is often the case when life attempts to teach me a lesson--and that lesson keeps repeating until I learn it--Katherine called a month later and again asked me to the symphony.<br />
<br />
And again I said yes.<br />
<br />
That night, I couldn't stop thinking about what I had done. I was nearly 50 and yet I still didn't have the fiber to tell the truth about myself. But if I didn't let go of this need to leap behind a mask every time I got scared, I would never be fully happy, because I would never be fully me.<br />
<br />
I knew I had to tell Katherine the truth, and maybe in person would have been better, but all I could manage was the telephone. So I scribbled down a list of everything I wanted to say. Before our friendship went any further, I needed to be totally frank. <br />
<br />
I needed her to know that, as culturally uncouth as it maybe was, I didn't like going to the symphony, ballet, theater, opera or art gallery openings. It wasn't that I had anything against these things; I just wasn't interested in attending them. <br />
<br />
So I held my breath, dialed her number and when she answered the phone I told her.<br />
<br />
And then Katherine did what I didn't expect: She laughed. She said she was glad I told her the truth, because a friend of hers who loved the symphony had come into town, but Katherine wasn't able to invite her because I had already agreed to go. Now Katherine could take her friend, so everyone would be happy.<br />
<br />
About a year or so after that, when Katherine and I were at lunch one day, she said she wanted to order cake for dessert, but only if I would eat half. And although I didn't want any cake--not even a bite--and I started to tell her that, I didn't after all. I was too afraid again.<br />
<br />
I confessed this to her recently. It was almost more difficult than it was before, and more humbling, knowing that I am still so afraid to be myself with her. But at least I told her, and that's progress.<br />
<br />
I suppose being me will take some time.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Are you fully honest with your friends about who you are and what you do and do not enjoy?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left."Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-37672240468003479142010-04-07T11:03:00.005-04:002010-04-14T16:54:03.245-04:00Aging Awkwardly, But GratefulAs my 50th birthday looms, I am determined to not fret over the evidence of history etched on my face more and more each year and instead try to adjust my attitude.<br />
<br />
I don't want my wrinkles injected with cow's collagen or my frown muscles subjected to bacterium toxin or my eyebrows lifted into perfect crescent moons via a surgeon's scalpel.<br />
<br />
Of course, all people should be able to do what they want with their faces and their bodies without others criticizing them. So let me say here that I am not criticizing anyone. I am simply venting, because I'm afraid.<br />
<br />
I'm afraid that beauty will be founded eventually on the homogenized look of plastic surgeons, instead of on individuality--and something even more troubling, that because I want to opt out of these procedures, I will be discounted because of it.<br />
<br />
And left to fly my wrinkled-woman flag alone.<br />
<br />
At least in the past we all looked old together. We comforted each other through our common shared experience.<br />
<br />
But now, I see myself in 30 years, one of the last few old female faces left and, consequently, compelled to explain myself to curious little children who don't understand why I am so different from others my age. Why I look 80 at 80.<br />
<br />
Still, I can't get passed this feeling that tells me not to interfere with something that isn't broken. And when I ever begin to doubt that, our Jeep provides me reassurance.<br />
<br />
Each time this old girl goes in for an oil change, someone invariably comes up to me, holding some grimy part of her, and tells me how wrecked it is. I then call my husband on my cell phone, and he always tells me some version of this: When you go under the hood to fix something, which probably doesn't need fixing, you're only asking for trouble. <br />
<br />
And I know he's right, because the time I did let someone fix something, which probably didn't need fixing, somehow another thing mysteriously got broken. So now I leave well enough alone.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to do the same with myself. Although, three years ago, I decided to get braces. <br />
<br />
A year or so after I'd gotten them, I teasingly asked my husband what he thought, certain he'd agree I looked like a wrinkled teenager. But instead he said he didn't like them.<br />
<br />
It took a few days for me to finally eke out why, because he kept saying he didn't know. <br />
<br />
It wasn't the cost, he said, or that I more or less up and did it without much discussion. It also wasn't because I looked a little ridiculous, although I think I did. <br />
<br />
The reason he didn't like the braces, he said, was because he feared they were only the beginning, and that I would eventually do something more riskful, like injecting botulin into my face. Or worse.<br />
<br />
I was glad he loves me enough to worry about such things--and that I was once again reminded that he doesn't need me to change my outsides.<br />
<br />
And I'm grateful he's been that way for the entire 25 years that I've known him.<br />
<br />
Once, when I whimpered about hating the way my face looked since I've gotten older, he said, "I don't like it when you talk that way about your face; I like your face the way it is."<br />
<br />
And I cried then, because he told me what probably all wives want to hear.<br />
<br />
If only it were enough.<br />
<br />
But it isn't. I am the one who has to love my outsides just the way they are or I will never be satisfied. I will always be afraid of the next new wrinkle or gray hair--or lack thereof.<br />
<br />
So I keep reminding myself how lucky I am to be aging at all. It means I'm still alive. When I do that, I can feel my attitude getting stronger. <br />
<br />
I also eat more healthily than I used to and I exercise three times a week, so I know I'm on the right track.<br />
<br />
Now, if I can only quit obsessing over whether or not to buy that cosmetic contraption on that shopping channel that superficially stimulates your facial muscles with baby electrical currents and thereby firms and smoothes the skin…<br />
<br />
QUESTION: How accepting are you of your aging process and what, if anything, could you do to improve your attitude?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-2134861806754093642010-03-24T11:00:00.009-04:002010-04-01T14:26:03.252-04:00What Really is Passion and Do I Have It?When a friend suggested I write a column about passion, I laughed and looked at his wife, because she knows how confused I am about it. And no, he was not talking about sex. He was talking about that quality that makes some people leap out of bed every morning like it's the first day of their lives.<br />
<br />
Since I am incapable of mental or physical sensation before seven a.m., I'm not one of those people. I unfold and crawl out of my warm womb-nest, but only after draining the lethargy from me and stretching every sedated muscle. In fact, I am not a leaper at any time of the day about anything really.<br />
<br />
Which has caused me to wonder: Do I have passion or don't I?<br />
<br />
For the friend who posed this topic to me, passion is something he never had until 10 years ago, when he got his first whiff of something he realized he wanted. During a vacation, he found himself on a boat off the coast of Florida and thought, "This is what I want someday." <br />
<br />
Although he wasn't sure what "this" would be, he was sure he wanted to be on the water as much as possible. Four years ago, at 69, he retired, settled in Southwest Florida fulltime, and founded the first continuing longterm study of bottlenose dolphins in the region. Now, he jumps out of bed every day at five a.m. like a child on Christmas morning.<br />
<br />
But what about people like me, who are not so much zestful about something as they are chronically pestered by it?<br />
<br />
I became interested in writing when I was about 12, but I wasn't a gifted English student. Two big red Fs are emblazoned on my memory--along with a below average English SAT score. In college I floundered from one major to the next, never considering journalism; I assumed I wasn't good enough to be a writer. But privately I wrote poems and songs and novels I never finished, because of something inside of me that would not quit.<br />
<br />
After college I flirted at the shallow fringes of the writing world, too afraid to dive headfirst into the deep end. First I worked for public relations firms and then for a film producer as a script reader.<br />
<br />
To test the water a little further, when I was 24 I took a job as an editorial assistant for a small magazine here in Naples, Florida, eventually going on to became an editor and writer for various Florida lifestyle publications.<br />
<br />
But during those years I felt an unceasing ache inside of me that said this wasn't the kind of writing I wanted to do.<br />
<br />
The problem was, I wasn't sure what kind of writing I wanted to do. By the time I was 45 I had started but not finished 12 novels, as well as submitted 21 essays to my local newspaper, all of which were rejected. The longer I witnessed my creative writing going unpublished the more I doubted my ability.<br />
<br />
And then I got a vision of myself at 80, full of regret for having never taken a chance on one of my dreams. The pain was so wrenching I made a promise to myself: I would write and finish a novel no matter how awful I thought it was. So I did, and then I re-wrote it five times before sending it out to agents and other writers, who told me to rewrite it again. And I have.<br />
<br />
The latest agent called it "competent", so maybe there is hope, which I'll need to get through re-write number 12.<br />
<br />
In the mean time, that nagging ache flared up, so I queried my local newspaper again. And now this column is published there.<br />
<br />
As terrified as I am to be swimming in something that sometimes feels like the middle of an ocean I am grateful, because that haunting feeling isn't there anymore. <br />
<br />
Maybe that means I'm doing what I need to do, at least for now. I do know I have a sense of contentment about this part of my life that I haven't felt before. <br />
<br />
And although every time I sit in front of my computer I worry I'll have nothing to say, a small voice inside of me keeps urging me on, telling me not to give up.<br />
<br />
Not even on that silly novel.<br />
<br />
I guess that is passion.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Are you passionate about something and, if so, how are you honoring it?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-90894870824756085772010-03-10T11:00:00.006-05:002010-04-07T11:34:16.271-04:00Understanding Someone Else's ExperienceOh, how I feel for the mothers of teenage daughters--and for the daughters who don't feel understood.<br />
<br />
In a column a while back, I confessed to investing a sizeable chunk of my life to blaming others for my misery, when the only one to blame was myself. It prompted a woman to write to me about her 15-year-old daughter, who she said seemed like my clone.<br />
<br />
She wanted to know why, when her daughter had "experienced from birth in a loving family" the concepts of loving ourselves, others and forgiveness, she still chose to "walk the 'no one understands me' path."<br />
<br />
And although I can't speak for her daughter, I know for me a lot of misunderstanding occurs because of that very word she mentions--that delicate, ever so unique thing known as our personal "experience".<br />
<br />
Because as much as we may think we have demonstrated and communicated certain qualities or feelings with our actions, it doesn't mean others, including our family, will experience them the way we intend. We can't make people feel what we feel and we can't make them understand us. <br />
<br />
Once, I remember being stopped at a red light as a woman proceeded slowly through the intersection toward me in my lane. When she tried to back up and redirect herself, she looked so out of sorts that I smiled in an attempt to show her that I identified and sympathized with her, that I also thought the intersection was confusing. But when her expression switched to anger, I felt my smile was misunderstood.<br />
<br />
Looking back, I really don't know what caused her expression to change. Maybe it had nothing to do with me--or she wasn't even angry. It's not easy to distinguish my intuition from my assumptions, which tend to get me into trouble.<br />
<br />
Nevertheless it taught me an important lesson. People don't always experience my actions the way I want, which can make me feel frustrated and powerless.<br />
<br />
But that's a good thing. It reminds me that I have no control over anything but myself, and that it isn't my job to try to rescue emotionally wounded people. When I do try to interfere, they can react a lot like injured pets, who are already in so much pain, confusion and fear from their circumstances that they do the only thing they know to protect themselves--they growl, snap and bite to keep from getting hurt more.<br />
<br />
For years I snapped and growled at my mother when she tried to help me with her advice. It wasn't until I was in my 40s that I realized that when I whined about my emotional pain and misunderstood-ness, it didn't mean I wanted to be rescued.<br />
<br />
What I wanted, but didn't know, was for someone to identify with me, reassure me that my reactions to the world, if not the healthiest, were at least understandable. If others could understand and accept me, then maybe I could understand and accept myself--and accomplish my own rescuing.<br />
<br />
Recently, a new friend told me how her child had communicated his own desire for self-sufficiency. Whenever she tried to feed this one-year old his bottle, he became crabby and angry and pushed it away. But when she finally handed him the bottle, he happily fed himself. <br />
<br />
No matter what our age, instinct tells us when we're ready to do things on our own. But in my case, I lacked both the understanding and language to explain what I felt, so I vented and complained and pushed people away. I didn't consciously know what I needed until I was in the presence of it. <br />
<br />
For me, that was to hear other people tell my story through their own story--people who had been where I was and could show me the tools they had learned to deal with the world in a healthier way.<br />
<br />
I have to remember this each time I am faced with someone reacting to something in a way I may not immediately understand, especially if the person seems cantankerous. The best thing I can do is to accept and be compassionate of other people's experience--and to try to identify with them, instead of compare myself against them, so we can find a common ground.<br />
<br />
And a measure of peace.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Is there someone in your life you find difficult to understand and, if so, might your relationship with that person benefit from trying to identify with him or her?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-37422709979811809392010-02-24T11:00:00.007-05:002010-04-07T11:38:29.764-04:00Okay, So Maybe I'm Not That ChicI really didn't intend to look like a bag lady at my friend's wedding. Naples was experiencing a cold snap that weekend and I knew the sunset ceremony would be outside on a terrace. My motive was to keep warm. <br />
<br />
That is what living in a subtropical climate has done to me. As soon as the temperature dips below 70, while all the tourists frolic on the beach in swimsuits I bundle up in anything I can find with wool mentioned on the fabric label. Wool skirts and sweaters that in some cases I have had since high school and college in Pennsylvania, because they still look new from seldom being worn during the 26 years that I've lived here in Florida.<br />
<br />
The cropped, wool cardigan seemed wedding-appropriate; it was black and sprinkled with faceted black beads. It was also as thick as a horse blanket, which fit my warmth agenda. I paired it with a slim, wool, black mid-calf skirt, and added black stockings and black pointy-toe shoes to further up the dressy quotient.<br />
<br />
And since the bride had even suggested black, I was relieved to not have to think about it anymore.<br />
<br />
But judging from how practically every other female at the wedding was clothed, even the groom's three-year-old granddaughter--in dresses and tops with bare arms and legs--I am guessing that looking like someone in Siberia isn't a popular style for weddings.<br />
<br />
It's not that anyone actually said I looked like a bag lady. But the bride didn't exactly disagree with me either when I told her that I thought that's how I appeared in her wedding photographs.<br />
<br />
So now I know and will not soon forget: A-line and midi length are not a flattering combination in a skirt. Particularly when that skirt is paired with low-heeled shoes and horse-blanket sweaters.<br />
<br />
Lesson learned.<br />
<br />
But if I were to believe everything that I think my friends imply about me--or what I see on television and in magazines--I could easily come to the conclusion that I never wear the right clothes or makeup or hairstyle, since I don't look like those models or movie stars. I don't look glamorous or sexy. I look sort of plain. Like the “before” photographs on those makeover television shows. To be honest, I often like the before shots better than the afters, so maybe I favor plain.<br />
<br />
But some of my friends don't.<br />
<br />
“I think you look better when you at least wear mascara,” a good friend told me over lunch last year. It wasn't surprising, considering she likes to wear eye makeup much of the time. Even to the gym. <br />
<br />
That same friend also likes to pester me about my hair length. She says I would look better if I cut it much shorter. But when I did cut it much shorter years ago, another friend said it made me look older. <br />
<br />
It's amazing what we all do to help ourselves look what we think is our best. A woman confessed to me that after several years of marriage her husband still thought her strawberry blonde hair was natural. It wasn't. And she had no intention of breaking his blissful bubble.<br />
<br />
My own blonde hair is natural--naturally mouse-blonde at the roots. And there is gray there, too, these days. The “natural" sunny highlights I owe to my hair colorist, bless his talented fingers. And gratefully, even my friends seem to approve.<br />
<br />
But even if they didn't, I have decided to focus on pleasing myself from now on when it comes to my style, since trying to please everyone else is impossible.<br />
<br />
True style is about integrity anyway. It's about honestly articulating on the outside who we are on the inside.<br />
<br />
I love seeing other women with that kind of courageous individual style. They are my mentors. They inspire me.<br />
<br />
I know my own style isn't for everyone; it's certainly not cool or trendy. And I'm beginning to be okay with that.<br />
<br />
I like comfort and simplicity. <br />
<br />
And sweaters as thick as horse blankets.<br />
<br />
Bag ladies unite.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Does your style reflect the true you?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-26144027306267074802010-02-10T11:00:00.009-05:002010-04-07T11:35:59.960-04:0010 Cool Things I Now KnowLet me just say I haven't quite mastered walking my talk. For that reason, even though I know it isn't a good idea to offer unsolicited advice, everything that follows could be construed as that, since it's for my niece and she hasn't exactly asked me for it.<br />
<br />
It's not that I think I know better than she what she should do in her life. I don't. And I know she has the right to learn for herself what will and will not work, without others like me butting in to confuse or complicate things. <br />
<br />
But she turns 18 soon. And all I really have to offer that's meaningful, besides another birthday check, is the cool and helpful stuff I've learned, which, when I actually make a point of applying in my life, makes things so much easier.<br />
<br />
And since I think the only thing worse than unsolicited advice is withholding really good secrets, I will venture to err on the good-secrets side:<br />
<br />
1. <em>There are always fewer jerks on the road when I leave 15 minutes earlier</em>. I don't know why this is, it just is. And for some reason, the lines at the bank, grocery store, and post office also don't seem as slow. I learned this from a funny, wise man who's originally from Boston, which, when he says it, always sounds like <em>Baaston</em>.<br />
<br />
2. <em>Rejection is protection</em>. I know this because years ago when I was a magazine editor, if my employer hadn't demoted me, which eventually led to my leaving, I would have never been hired by another publisher, who gave me what ended up being my favorite job in my editing career.<br />
<br />
3. <em>It's better than a stick in the eye.</em> I learned this from my late father who, anytime I ever whined about something, would tell me this to help me put things in perspective.<br />
<br />
4. <em>Delay in life doesn't mean denial</em>. I know this because after 10 and a half years of dating, my husband finally proposed--and we have now been married nearly 14 years.<br />
<br />
5. <em>People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful need my kindness the most.</em> I know this because when I am any or all of these, kindness from others helps me dissolve the behavior much more quickly and shows me by example a better way to be.<br />
<br />
6. <em>People who are grumpy, mean, self-absorbed, selfish, annoying, and unpeaceful are my greatest teachers.</em> I know this because the people who cause me the most un-peacefulness in my life continue to be my reason to master the art of being peaceful when the people around me aren't. <br />
<br />
7. <em>The difficult takes a little while, the impossible a little longer</em>. I learned this from an elegant woman who learned it from her father. I know it's true, because since the age of 12 I've wanted to tell stories about my life, but didn't believe I was a good enough writer. Five years ago, when I suggested a column of personal essays to my local newspaper, they turned it down, confirming my fear. But I worked on my writing, queried them again, and now, at nearly 50, I am a contributor to that newspaper with this very column. So maybe it's true what Vince Lombardi said: "We didn't lose the game; we just ran out of time."<br />
<br />
8. <em>I am the only reason I may have a bad day today.</em> I learned this from a truck driver who told me he wrote that bit of wisdom on a slip of paper and taped it to his bathroom mirror to remind him each morning who the real troublemaker was. I know it's true for me, because when I am agitated everyone seems mean and when I am peaceful everyone seems kind--or I don't care anyway because I'm so darn peaceful.<br />
<br />
9. <em>There are two kinds of business: My business and none of my business</em>. I don't remember who I learned this from, but I'm pretty sure it was people who wanted me to stay out of their business.<br />
<br />
10. <em>Intuition is the best source of advice</em>. I know this because it has always told me whether unsolicited advice--from a meddling aunt or anyone else--is worth listening to.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: Do you pay attention to you intuition and, if not, why?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-61367172978676264892010-01-28T16:45:00.008-05:002011-03-15T16:56:24.866-04:00I'd Be Fine If...A friend said I looked exuberant in a recent photograph. Exuberant. What a contrast between the me I am becoming at 49 and the me I was 10 or so years ago, when I sometimes evidently appeared so glum that even strangers, bless their hearts, would walk up to me and say, “Smile.”<br />
<br />
Not that it did any good. Instead of being inspired to look up from the ground and acknowledge other people once in a while—people who might already feel invisible enough—I felt attacked and withdrew even more. <br />
<br />
In my defense, my face does naturally have a hound-dog quality about it. Everything--my eyebrows, eyes and mouth--it all slopes downward. So I wasn't frowning, I told myself. And no, I did not have a pretty good anger issue brewing inside of me, anger that over time had fermented then flattened to resentment.<br />
<br />
I would scream about my job alone in my car so I didn't scare my neighbors, and the love of my life seemed forever inclined to not get married. The world felt unfair, demanding, and infuriating. People seemed mean, thoughtless, and rude. But no, I was not frowning.<br />
<br />
Even as I write this I am still amazed at how I believed that the reason for my state was that everybody else was so screwed up.<br />
<br />
I remember once ranting about my job to my mother and, her eyes as wide as quarters, her suggesting, “Why don't you just be peaceful?” <br />
<br />
Be peaceful? Be peaceful? Wasn't it obvious if I could do "peaceful" I wouldn't be standing there whining? <br />
<br />
By the time I was 39 I was finally married to that love of my life and doing what I had always wanted, writing. But I was still walking around staring at the ground and blaming the world for the things I didn't want and the things I wanted but still didn't have. My wants seemed to multiply as soon as a want got granted.<br />
<br />
And then I got a want I hadn't expected. Her name was Jane. You'd have thought she had it all, with her attitude. And she did. All the challenging stuff. The unhappy marriage to an alcoholic husband, insane mother, kleptomania, weight issues, low self esteem. She was also pretty, smart, generous, funny and had a great career, although one she hated. <br />
<br />
But Jane refused to blame anyone but herself for her mental state or her circumstances. And if Jane had gotten herself into all of this then Jane—with the help of God, a counselor, 12-step meetings and whatever else it took—would get herself out of it, too. <br />
<br />
Jane had the spirit and determination of a fighter, but she was a lover. She loved others even with their imperfections and herself enough to work hard at getting well. And that love, even in the midst of her temporary bouts of frustration with herself, absolutely radiated from her, soothing me like the warm fire I had needed and never knew.<br />
<br />
Gradually, because of Jane's example and that of others like her—their gratitude, answerableness, acceptance of others and self-effacing humor—I am learning to change my attitude. One day five or so years ago I even noticed I wasn't looking at the ground as much. I was looking strangers in the eye and it felt good.<br />
<br />
I haven't seen Jane in awhile, not since she got divorced, moved away and remarried, so I decided to send her an e-mail. Within a day she e-mailed me back.<br />
<br />
She said she's divorced again, but has left that career she hated to do the kind of work she enjoys. And I could tell her humor is as strong as ever, as is her forgiveness.<br />
<br />
And again she showed me something I needed to see: that if Jane can keep trying and stumbling and forgiving herself then I can, too.<br />
<br />
As much as I wish I didn't, I do sometimes fall back into feeling sorry for myself. But at least I don't do it as often anymore or for as long and that's good.<br />
<br />
It really does help when I focus on what I have instead of what I don't--something to do with filling my brain with positive thoughts so there isn't any space for the negative.<br />
<br />
Smiling doesn't hurt either.<br />
<br />
Question: How are you or are you not taking responsibility for your mind-set?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See above left.)Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-33408208181402827742010-01-18T08:00:00.011-05:002010-01-18T08:00:08.301-05:00Me, Rigid?A thin line separates self-care from selfishness, and I wonder if sometimes I have unwittingly crossed it by digging in my heals over things that no longer serve me. <br />
<br />
Such as where to sit on an airplane.<br />
<br />
I don't remember when I concluded, “I must sit in an aisle seat”. Maybe it was when I started drinking two liters of water everyday. Or when I decided I wanted to be able to exit an airplane as quickly as possible when we landed--or if we crashed. That's the optimist in me. Or pessimist. I'm not sure which. <br />
<br />
I hadn't thought about it until a friend told me about something that happened on her honeymoon. It got her wondering if her own heel digging might be self-care gone petrified.<br />
<br />
Or, as she calls it, rigidity.<br />
<br />
“I thought it might be a good topic for your column,” she said. But I had a feeling it was her way of saying we might have this affliction in common.<br />
<br />
My friend confessed that her do-not-cross boundary when it comes to air travel happens to be the window seat, and when she and her new husband boarded the airplane on their honeymoon a 12-year-old boy was sitting in her seat—until she told him otherwise.<br />
<br />
“Did you just make that little boy move?” her groom said.<br />
<br />
Of course my friend, who's really a softie, felt like an ogre. So as soon as the “fasten seat belt” sign went off, she asked the boy if he wanted the window seat, and he said he did, so she gave it to him. Now, she says, she's working on loosening her clinch on her boundaries.<br />
<br />
But we have to be aware of our boundaries to know if we are being too rigid with them, and it wasn't so long ago that I was oblivious to many of mine until somebody stumbled over one, at which point I realized, <em>Ouch!</em><br />
<br />
Or <em>Ick.</em> As in the case of my first blind date. I was a freshman in college and he was a famous Big 10 football player. He wasn't typically my type but he was attractive in a big, strong guy sort of way—and he wore a jacket and tie and took me to an expensive restaurant with candlelight and white tablecloths and matching napkins.<br />
<br />
But he did something I would have never thought to put on my “do not cross this line” list until I had actually experienced it. A waiter brought a telephone to our table with what must have been a 30-foot cord—it was pre-cell phone 1978. And as the diamond chunk in his left earlobe sparkled like the shining star I thought he was, my date dipped his napkin into his water glass, wiped the sides of his nostrils, and proceeded to make bets with his bookie.<br />
<br />
So that's how I learned about boundaries initially—by experiencing someone doing something I found disrespectful and respecting myself enough not to put myself in the situation again. But there were other boundaries I set then erased for fear of disappointing others. Until I began this column, I had difficulty telling people I was unavailable during the times I reserved for writing. Because I wasn't yet published, I thought they wouldn't understand why I chose writing over being with them. <br />
<br />
And then someone said, “If you don't take your writing seriously why would anyone else?” <br />
<br />
It was a needed reality check: I teach others how to treat me by how I treat myself.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I still feel guilty over some boundaries I set, but I'm working on that—on shaking off the untruth that says love requires giving even when I bleed. It's okay to say no if I believe the giving will hurt.<br />
<br />
Thanks to my friend, I now know I also need to re-evaluate my boundaries once in a while. Instead of setting them globally or for a lifetime, it's better to be open and flexible. I am growing and changing, so it's only natural that my boundaries should, too. <br />
<br />
As for the next time I fly, I plan to request an aisle seat but I won't be as rigid about it, in case someone else needs it more.<br />
<br />
Like a 12-year-old boy.<br />
<br />
Or somebody who drinks more water than me.<br />
<br />
QUESTION: What, if any, boundaries are you holding onto that no longer serve you?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)<br />
<br />
<br />Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8610843261959500650.post-25127958372819975812010-01-04T08:00:00.020-05:002010-01-04T11:15:24.563-05:00No Shoes PleaseIt started innocently enough. I didn't like cleaning black footprints in the bathtub. <br />
<br />
"Here," I said, handing my husband rubber flip-flops. "No more going barefoot outside, especially not to 7-Eleven." <br />
<br />
He protested at first by "forgetting" to wear them, and I understood why. We live in a beach town. We have barefoot weather practically year round; it's natural not to wear shoes. But when a super-strength mystery goo showed up on his feet I put my foot down. <br />
<br />
"Please wear the flip-flops," I said. "The bottoms of your feet are disgusting."<br />
I guess that did it because he started wearing the shoes. Not all the time, but more, and always to 7-Eleven, and the footprints disappeared from the tub. <br />
<br />
That's also when we stopped wearing shoes in our home; it seemed the logical next step. But what initially began as a way to keep the house clean eventually changed into something else: Me trying to keep the world at bay.<br />
<br />
Because the world wasn't just dirty it was scary dirty, and I had proof. <br />
<br />
In August 2009, <em>New York Daily News</em> reporters Leah Chernikoff and Jacob E. Osterhout, wearing flip-flops, trekked through trains, bars, a park, a baseball game, and the public bathroom at the Coney Island Subway Station—and twice rode the Cyclone—then sent the flip-flops to a lab.<br />
<br />
About 18,100 bacteria were found on those shoes. And yes, there were probably good as well as bad ones, but Aerococcus viridans and Rothia mucilaginosa were among them. And since they tend to live in the mouth, the logical reason for them clinging to those sandals was people refusing to swallow their own saliva.<br />
<br />
"It's not a good sign," the lab's manager, Dennis Kinney, told the <em>Daily News</em>. “If someone were sick and spitting on the ground, you could pick something up.”<br />
<br />
The sandals that traveled to Coney Island's public bathroom had even more bacteria, including Staph aureus. This is a generally harmless bacterium unless it enters the body through a cut, gets into your bloodstream, is left untreated, at which point you can die.<br />
<br />
It was enough to convince me that everyone should remove their shoes in my home, not just my husband and I. But no, I haven't yet made this ultimatum. I don't want people to think I respect my floors more than I do their desire to be fully dressed. Or that I think they are bug-infested petri dishes, which I don't, but I do think their shoes are.<br />
<br />
I have to admit I was uneasy the first time I was asked to remove my shoes at someone's home, because I always wear socks or slippers. I'd forgotten that ten or so years ago I often went barefoot and never died.<br />
<br />
Not many die from shaking hands either, but I'd also prefer not to do that, since I don't know where people's hands have been. <br />
<br />
It's exhausting, this bacteria angst, and I really don't want to go through my life plastic wrapped and hermetically sealed. My best guess is, all of it is a symptom of my knowing I'm turning 50 soon. <br />
<br />
Twenty-five years ago time stretched in front of me endlessly, but it doesn't feel endless now. I feel like a snowball rolling down a hill. The longer I live, the more I know, so the faster my life seems to go. I'm aware of things like catastrophic germs in a way I wasn't before, of anything that might possibly shorten what living I have left.<br />
<br />
But obviously fretting over it isn't a wise preoccupation. Especially since chronic stress weakens the immune system, thus lessening my chances of living to a healthy ripe old age.<br />
<br />
So I suppose the only solution is to do what someone once advised me but I didn't pay enough attention to: Wear life like a loose robe.<br />
<br />
I wonder if really loose flip flops might be just as good?<br />
<br />
QUESTION: How are you or are you not wearing your life loosely?<br />
<br />
(Not sure how to leave your name or pseudonym with your comment? See the post above left.)<br />
<br />
For the <em>New York Daily</em> <em>News</em> Article: <a href="http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/health/2009/08/11/2009-08-11_flipflops_are_a_magnet_for_dangerous_deadly_bac.html#ixzz0Z0vdTjJI">http://www.nydailynews.com/lifestyle/health/2009/08/11/2009-08-11_flipflops_are_a_magnet_for_dangerous_deadly_bac.html#ixzz0Z0vdTjJI</a><br />
<br />
<br />Janis Lyn Johnsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06225348338646650897noreply@blogger.com0