She Started It

Humans can almost be counted on - when they feel desperate or hurt - to lash out at other humans, to hit them where it hurts, and to erase bonds of intimacy and trust, often in an instant.  It's not unlike the behavior of young children, really.  One calls another a name, and the other retorts with a worse name.  We try to "one up" each other with the pain we inflict.  And we do it best with those we claim to love.

It's certainly difficult to be mature and respectful when we feel rejected or wounded.  We want others to feel the pain we are feeling I suppose.  But I can't think of a time when inflicting cruelty on another human being has made me feel any better about my own personal pain.  Maybe for a fleeting moment, we bask in the glory of being a pompous jackass, but pretty soon we find no comfort or absolution in the act. 

What's worse, for the recipient of unfair or untrue cruelty, all of the lovely things the speaker has said to us and about us before come into question.  I always go back to that quote from Pretty Woman: "The bad stuff is easier to believe. You ever notice that?"  I've matured to a place where it's not so much that the bad stuff is easier to believe, but its impact can be far greater than the good stuff we hear about ourselves.  I know what I am and what I'm not, and I've grown accustomed to mud-slinging in the arena of human relations.  It still hurts, but I have learned to love myself and accept the fact that some people will say things that simply aren't true just to try to hurt you or manipulate you.  I can't control that.  What I can control is whether I choose to associate with people like that.

As a good friend once suggested to me, "you're free to make your choices, but just remember, I'm free to make mine in turn."  So whether she started or he started it, I can always choose to finish it - whether it be by taking the high road, walking away, or refusing to engage in it.

The Lost Art of Class & Grace

From time to time, I realize that my attitude toward graciousness and courteousness is the exception, not the norm.  When did we all become so self-absorbed and rude that we stopped extending basic gestures of class?  Are there people who actually don’t know what RSVP means?  It means someone needs and wants to know whether you plan to attend an event they are taking the time to orchestrate.  It means it might impact what they how much they are going to spend or how intensively they will prepare for the event.  Quite literally, it’s répondez , s’il vous plait (respond please).  “No” is a completely acceptable response.  But far too often, people either don’t respond at all – not even thanking the inviter for the invitation – or they say they will be present, but fail to show up or even bother to notify the inviter – what with all the available technology – that they will not be attending as planned.

I spoke with someone about this phenomenon today.  It’s all a part of the entitlement mentality I see so often and the self-importance we as a society wear as a skin tight garment.  It disgusts me and I’m so glad my parents raised me better.

What happened to the hand-written thank you note?  I interview people quite often in my position, and am always disappointed and surprised to see how few take the time to follow up with a thank you note for my time and interest.  Am I the only one who makes her kids sit down within a week of receiving a birthday present and write the sender a thank you note?

I will never forget my daughter’s birthday party a few years ago.  I couldn’t afford to do much, but had planned a small party at Jo-Ann Fabrics where she and a few friends could each build a stuffed bear craft, much like a Build-A-Bear.  I could only afford to invite 4 or 5 friends.  Two said they would be there, and the others did not respond at all.   Yes it was a snowy Saturday, but it was my little girl’s birthday.  And when not one single child showed up and no one called to cancel or RSVP no, I cannot impress upon you my sadness, disappointment, and dread for what my daughter was thinking and feeling in the time she spent waiting and hoping that someone would walk through the door for her.

So this is my open letter to the world.  When someone extends an invitation because they are requesting your presence somewhere, take two seconds to let them know if you’re interested or if you plan to attend.  And when you give someone your word, let that mean something.  Sure, things come up and plans change.  Nobody expects you to make a call if you're late on account of getting injured in a car accident.  But folks, it doesn’t take long to extend the courtesy of letting someone know you can’t keep your word.  And by the way, saying no is perfectly acceptable.  Don’t be afraid to do it.  You don’t even have to make up a lie as to why you are saying no.  Just say no and be comfortable with it.   And don’t forget, the day may come when no one bothers to invite you to anything at all.  And I hope you won’t wonder why. 

Wrapped Up in His Love

Times have been tough lately.  Due to a variety of personal developments in my life (or in others' lives, which in turn impacts my life), I'm left with some residual internal discord.  It feels like many days I just manage to make it from start to finish, with not a lot left over at day's end.

Four months ago, I went through a very difficult time that truly taxed (and continues to tax) my soul.  An old friend of mine reached out in a gesture of kindness, support, and generosity.  She sent me a prayer shawl.  It's this rich, cobalt blue color, and it has been draped on a kitchen chair for awhile, as I pondered what exactly to do with it.  Well lately, it seems my sadness is worse at bedtime, so I've been taking it to bed with me.  For one thing, I'm a cold-natured person and it warms me up.  But because it is a prayer shawl, it serves as a reminder to chat with God before I rest my body and mind for as much as the night as I'm able.  What's more, it is a physical reminder and sensation of being wrapped up, protected, even held...  At the risk of sounding kooky, I've been able to achieve more moments of peace as I create this physical experience of being wrapped up, all while I bask in the spiritual feeling of being wrapped up, chosen, protected, defended, and supremely loved. 

Construction Zone

Forgiveness, to me, is a pretty straight forward thing.  It’s a no-brainer, really, especially if you’re a Christian.  But reconciliation is an altogether different creature.  It may be desired, but it doesn’t always come easily or even naturally.

It’s no easy thing to move past your own hurt and decide to take a risk on something that may or may not work out for you.  In some ways, it’s no different than the beginning of a relationship – we all take risks there, not knowing which direction things may lead.  In other ways though, it’s incomparable.  You have a history.  You have memories and reminders of a time when things were better, sunnier, more innocent, more….solid.  It looms over you as both a ghost and a goal, because you want to return to that place.  Problem is, you don’t know whether you ever can. 

Memories come flooding back, often at the most inopportune moments.  And so you ride a roller coaster at times, sometimes feeling open to the possibilities and growth offered to you, and sometimes slamming the door and freezing up, residing in a place of anger and distrust. 

The person on the other end is facing struggles of their own, though no one wants to give them any credit or sympathy.  They are aware they are willingly entering a power differential that cannot be avoided if anyone is acting with an ounce of honesty.  They must be willing to swallow their pride, to accept accountability and blame, and to face the judge and jury who alternatingly accept and commend their efforts - or - lash out at and condemn them, or sometimes refuse to acknowledge them.  All of the negative consequences are a result of the mistakes they made, and so they must accept the obstacles they encounter if they want to make a change and rebuild what was lost.

I’m in the midst of a construction zone of reconciliation right now.  It’s tiresome, dangerous, and the outcome is obviously uncertain.  But isn’t that always the case, whether reconciling or just starting out?  It’s all about taking chances, about experimenting with trust, and about measuring your levels of happiness and distress and figuring out if the return on your investment is worth the risk.  The passersby that glance over at my construction zone sometimes offer a thumbs up, sometimes offer a thumbs down, and sometimes look the other way altogether.  It doesn’t really matter.  I’m one of only two people that can do this work.  I’m learning to plot out and reinforce the boundaries I need in order to focus on the work at hand.  And I'm well aware that the fees are double if I'm caught speeding through this delicate, dangerous stretch of road, so I'm keeping both hands on the wheel and staying in between the lines at a safe pace.



The Labyrinth

I’m one of those who likes to face my difficulties head on, face first.  I do things that some people think are horrific, unthinkable, and audacious in order to deal with and heal from the things that weigh me down.  I’m one of those who will lie down on my grandparents’ grave when I miss them, I will pull out painful pictures rather than avoid them, and so forth.  So today, on the day I had planned my wedding, of course I went down to the gazebo where we’d planned to marry, at the time of the ceremony. 

On the way down, I listened to a CD I made for Bob a month after we met.  Pink’s Glitter in the Air finally brought me tears and I let myself sob while the sun shone through my sunroof and the wind blew through my hair.  I passed so many people in cars or on the street, and it reminded of my pregnancy when I’d want to scream to whomever was next to me in traffic, “I might look like just another driver but I’m pregnant!  Can you believe it?”.  Although this time I wanted to tell them that today was the day I was planning to get married, except now here I was in khaki Capri pants, flip flops, and a brown Harley Davidson racerback tank top. 

I got down to the arboretum and started to take pictures.  I was surprised to see some people in “my” gazebo grilling hot dogs and having a little picnic.  They looked at me as I wandered around snapping pictures, and I was reminded of how little we know about the strangers we pass in our daily lives and what burdens we are carrying (like the teller at the bank who was complaining about the wedding he had to go to today, as I smiled and listened).  It became quickly apparent to me that my plan of sitting in the gazebo and reflecting on my life was not going to happen, so I crossed the street to the more familiar part of the arboretum, where I’d attended many of my Dad’s work picnics as a child.  I’d even tailgated there for OSU games.

I saw The Labyrinth Garden again, and remembered how my Dad had said people would gather there and try to walk the Labyrinth maze….many concentric circles with paths – some of which led to dead ends and some of which led to the center of the maze.  “What the hell?” I thought, “I’ve got nothing better to do” and so I started into the circle to see how tough this could possibly be.  Of course I would always look ahead to see if the path I was on was going to dead end, and if so, I’d turn the other way.  After trying what I felt was every possible turn, I concluded that there was no way to the center.  This pissed me off.  Then I noticed there was a short, direct path leading from the outside of the Labyrinth straight to the center.  Even a baby could see it was a sure thing.  But I didn’t want to take that path.  It didn’t seem like it would be any fun.  No challenge there.  Slowly I began to realize how metaphorical this Labyrinth was.  But then again, I was growing frustrated and wanted to conquer this silly little maze. 

So I decided to outwit the Labyrinth and start from the center and find the path that led to the outside.  After all, I have a master’s degree for chrissake.  Yes, it occurred to me that this is cheating and that we cannot do this in life (start at our destination and backtrack through our journey).  I moved quickly along, hit a couple dead ends, and then realized I was still stuck, unable to find my way out.  At this point, I decided this cute little exercise was over for me, and I decided to leave.  But not without a lot on my mind. 

There are so, so many times in life I think I am on the right path, doing the smart thing, making progress….only to find that I’ve reached a dead end.  Then it is time to back track a bit, regroup, and try again.  That’s assuming you want to make it to the center, the prize, the destination, the end goal.  I couldn’t figure that Labyrinth out today, and perhaps I never will (without taking the easy, obvious path).  But I bet I go back and try again.

Nala Don't Play

My dog Nala is so pretty.  Really, she’s quite beautiful.  And it’s not just me being biased as her owner/master/mother (whatever you want to call me) – I’ve heard it from others many times.  I was thinking today about how when people see Nala, because of her attractiveness and because she is small (Chihuahua), they instantly want to hold her or at least touch her, pet her.  But Nala doesn’t so much care for strangers.  She resents it when strangers take the liberty to touch her without gaining the permission animals require for such intimacy.  Sometimes it is embarrassing.  But sometimes I think it’s really admirable.

Just because she is pretty and easy to physically manipulate doesn’t mean she is okay with people putting their hands on her without first establishing some sort of connection.  And why on earth shouldn’t she be that way?  It’s no different to me than being in a crowded bar and having some jackass saunter over, murmuring “hey sweetheart” or “wow your eyes sure are beautiful” as they take the liberty of putting their hand in my hair, on my shoulder, over my hand, etc.  I don’t know you.  I didn’t invite you into my presence or my conversation.  And I sure as hell didn’t ask that you establish any sort of physical intimacy with me.  I’m not wearing a shirt that says “Cuddle me” or “Hold me”.  Neither is Nala.

Nala doesn’t screw around.  If you try to touch her and she doesn’t want to be touched, she will go ahead and bite you or at least show you her tiny, sharp teeth in an effort to warn you that she’s pissed.  I’ve seen research that says dog imitate their owners, whether it’s in their best interest or not to do so.  This makes me chuckle.  You could approach Nala with a fresh steak and – don’t get me wrong – this greedy overeater will want it real bad and probably find a way to get it, but only on her own terms.  And if it requires crawling into your lap, she ain’t gonna do it.   

So when we were running errands today and someone reached out to pet her and she snarled, I had to scold her, but on the inside I was saying, “Go on with your bad self, girl.  I’d have done the same thing.”

Growing Up in the 80s

I was born at the perfect time for me.  I’m really happy with when my “coming of age” years occurred in the scope of American history and pop culture.  I was a girl who was happy to play outside, catch lightning bugs, wear a string of frog eggs as a necklace, and so forth until Mom called us in to take a bath and watch Bugs Bunny on a Saturday night in the summer.  I filled a Helen Hutchley’s bag with all my little Smurf figurines and could play with them for hours, with no structure but my own.  One of my key summer activities was riding my bike and going to the pool.

The music in the 1980s (when I was 6 – 15 years old) will never seem like “oldies” to me, no matter how old I get.  There will always be something badass about Bon Jovi, something universal about Journey, something risqué about Salt ‘N Pepa, and something disturbing about Robert Palmer.  This was a decade when no one batted an eye at bands with names like Dexy’s Midnight Runners, Men at Work, Kajagoogoo, or Frankie Goes to Hollywood.  I got to see Michael Jackson, Prince, and Madonna debut and rise to the heights of their fame and success.   I had crushes on the likes of John Schneider (Bo Duke from The Dukes of Hazard), John Cougar (before he was John Mellencamp), Michael Jackson, and – regrettably (and much to my parents’ horror) – Axl Rose. I was completely comfortable in fluorescent clothing and acid washed jeans.  I was thoroughly entertained by Family Ties, The Cosby Show, Silver Spoons, Punky Brewster, Golden Girls, The Barbara Mandrell Show, Miami Vice, Who’s the Boss, etc. 

We didn’t have all sorts of amazing technology, and that was fine.  Our cable box had a wire that ran to the TV, so yes it was a remote control, but no, not really.  The phones all had cords and none of them were mobile.  We were lucky enough to have a Colecovision but not an Atari.  The printer that went with our Commodore 64 was dot matrix and had those little perforated sheets along the edges.  My Walkman played cassette tapes and we had an 8-track player in the car.  Never had a TV or phone in my room, never mind a computer.  Internet?  Nope.  Encyclopedias.

I often joke about how if I had been alive 100 or 200 years ago, I’d have been burned at the stake.  Maybe.  Maybe not.  We’ll never know.  I just know I think it’s really cool that God had be show up at the precise time he did.  I remember writing this on the cover a journal when I was 16:

Hold onto sixteen as long as you can

Changes come around real soon – make us women and men

~John Cougar, “Jack & Diane”

 -----------------------------------------

I guess nothing can last forever

…Those were the best days of my life

~Bryan Adams, “Summer of ‘69”

Summer's going fast, nights growing colder
Children growing up, old friends growing older
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each impression a little bit stronger

~Rush, “Time Stand Still”