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