On the Road Again

I spent a lot of this past summer on the road. I mean – A LOT. And, I’m not even counting the beautiful trip abroad that warrants its own entry.

Late in June we drove from Georgia to Iowa to spend some days finding a place to live here. In that trip, we went from Cedar Rapids to Iowa City to Des Moines to Iowa City to Cedar Rapids. Then back to Georgia. In July, we moved from Georgia to Iowa. In early August, we went from Iowa to Kentucky and back to pick up youngest son. The end of August found me on the road taking middle son to college in Pennsylvania; then, back home and back to work. 

Just today, as a function of my job, I put over two hundred miles on my car driving to two schools and to one of the agency facilities from which I work. 

Yes, I’ve seen lots of roads this summer.  You know what I’ve noticed? 

There’s construction out there. I believe the reports that our infrastructure is crumbling, but while it crumbles there are groups of men and women all over the nation trying to gird it up. Here’s the thing I noticed about construction and driving: I don’t mind waiting in construction traffic if work is actually being done. I understand the need for road cordoned off for no apparent reason until you approach the crew, and you note that the long stretch where nothing was being done is actually a buffer for people who are doing a job I would never want to do much less be able to do: repairing bridges and roads.

The same is true in life. There are times when we cordon off parts of our lives because we need to repair them.  We need to recover from a bad relationship; we quit dating. We need to nurture ourselves after a loss; we don’t go out much. We need to focus energy on building up a skill set; we go to the gym lots or garden lots or write lots. Precious else gets done when we shut down our roads to repair or build ourselves up. Eventually, though, our roads are repaired and they reopen.

The thing that pisses me off is when you’re driving down the road, as I was this past weekend, and the two lane highway becomes a one lane highway. There were cones tall and skinny and short and fat blocking three four-mile stretches on I-80 between Iowa City and Des Moines. I waited for it. 

I knew that workers need their space for safety. I also knew it was the weekend, and it was likely that there weren’t actually any workers, but I would see where they were shoring up the highways and byways that I had used so much this year. 

Nope.

There was no machinery. No workers. No sandy gravelly area where cement or asphalt would soon be poured and smoothed. Nothing. Just a blank, empty lane of a highway. No work being done. No activity whatsoever.

Have you ever met such people? They are shut down and tuned out. Whole avenues in their lives have been blocked off, but there’s no evidence of work being done. Everything appears usable. It seems like it all works.  But they have this shut-off area that may or may not ever reopen.

Such people are traveling through life, but perhaps not traveling well. Maybe they put up the cones for defense.  Maybe they guard their cones jealously, afraid others will trample them. Perhaps they put up the cones so long ago that they forgot all about them. 

I am thankful for the travels I had this summer. I am thankful that middle son drove most of them. (I miss you!) I am thankful for the travels I am having now. But more than all of that, I look around, and I realize while sometimes I’ve had cones up because things were being repaired, there have been time when the road has simply been closed – for no good reason. And, in those instances, I’m thankful for friends and family (you know who you are) who stopped their cars, got out, and helped me reopen those stretches of road.

The metaphor has gone a bit stale at this point, so I’ll leave you with this lyric from Rascal Flatts: “Life is a highway; I wanna ride it all night long. If you’re going my way, I wanna drive it all night long.”

Take down the unnecessary cones. Open up the possibilities. Use both lanes. Keep going.

Home

"Turns out they were right again . . . if it's true home is where the heart is, 

I guess now I'm homeless." 

That lyric has been haunting me over the past two months.  I have felt without a home for a while now.  The transition from Augusta to Cedar Rapids - from Georgia to Iowa - will perhaps be complete when the last box is unpacked (that will take a while!) or maybe once I've been here a year of seasons or maybe there is some other definition of adjustment that I am not thinking of at the moment.  

Change takes time.  I was out of town this weekend, and when the thought of going home flashed across my mind, it was not Cedar Rapids that my mind called up, it was Augusta.  I didn't realize it the first time, but the second time when discussing with my son when we would leave to go home, again, it was a flight image of Augusta that came to mind.

I start a new job tomorrow; when I think of that, an image of my old school grounds scampers through my mind.  I consciously know that I will be working in a different setting at a different set of tasks, but my mind has an ingrained image of work as that old setting.

A quick review: I moved to Augusta to be married.  When that reason no longer existed, I thought of leaving; however different reasons kept me in place. For a long time, I complained - even railed - about Augusta, Georgia, and the South. It was where I lived, but as  location, I never thought of Augusta as home until this past weekend.

In fact, my friends in Augusta can tell you that I have talked about being an outsider or not at home there in varying degrees over the years.  I probably mentioned it most in relation to lack of snow in the winter and high summer temperatures.  Even having lived there fourteen years, when someone asked where I was from, I would say that I lived in Augusta, but I was from Iowa.

Everyone has moments in life when you just feel foreign.  I had it when I first lived in the Soviet Union. The language, the culture, the KGB - it was all foreign.  When I first moved to Augusta, I remember hearing a conversation between a bricklayer and another man; I could not understand one word they were saying.  I asked what language they were speaking.  English.  Huh?  I have a degree in linguistics and have studied languages for the past 25 years.  I was in East Central Georgia, USA, and I could not understand the English being spoken.

It's not just language that will make you feel foreign.  Customs, foods, pace of life, even time zones can play a role on whether people feel comfortable or at home.  People choose their homes or move their homes or stay in their homes for so many reasons.  Whether you have stayed in one place your whole life or moved multiple times, as I have, where, really is your home?

There is a host of aphorisms to define home.  Where our story begins.  There's no place like it.  Where you can be yourself.  Where we love.  Where one starts from.

As I was packing and unpacking boxes and feeling homeless, I started thinking that my home is actually a patchwork.  I have squares from childhood, college, and beyond.  I'm just now realizing that, yes, Augusta is part - an integral part - of that patchwork of home.  Places and people around Augusta will always be home.

My home is
Tara's patio on a breezy Sunday evening, the smells of Shishir's cooking wafting over us;
Liberty's winter solstice party;
the horses that used to run behind our house in Harlem;
Jamie's garage while he grills, Carrie makes her killer onion rings in the kitchen, and we all drink beer;
a chat with Jennifer in the hallway;
our book club with more wine and food than books;
Iris mowing her yard in the mid-day summer heat;
closing Monterrey's with Erin;
the classroom and office and auditorium at my old school;
boot camp and Tracy's "slower than pond water" shouts;
a tour of Franklin's most recent art acquisitions;
Christmas Eve brunch at Katie's;
the purgatorial Kroger parking lot;
appetizers and long talks in Jan's kitchen -
Augusta is part of my home.

I am most in agreement with Tad Williams on the concept of home:  "Never make your home in a place.  Make a home for yourself inside your own head.  You'll find what you  need to furnish it - memory, friends you can trust, love of learning, and other such things.  That way it will go with you wherever you journey."

So, that song may need revision.  Because, if home is where the heart is, I'm not homeless - I have homes everywhere, including with my loves in Augusta.

SMH at all the BFFs

When we lived in Trenton, my Best Friend Melinda lived a few houses down, and a few more houses down from her lived my arch nemesis: Rhonda.  Capital letters for that title because in those days, we girls had one Best Friend.  It was an honorific saved for the girl to whom you told all your secrets, had over for sleepovers, wrote notes to, ran through the sprinkler with and, if you were lucky, who had a handsome older brother you could secretly crush on. Having a Best Friend was an important social marker – probably THE social marker of girlhood.

One sunny day it came to my attention that Melinda and Rhonda were playing Barbies in Rhonda’s driveway.  Horrified that my Best Friend might be making a new Best Friend, my six-year old brain told me that the best way to deal with this snub was to ride my bike up and down the street past the criminal in order to register my dissatisfaction with my Best Friend.  Of course, if Melinda saw me, she would rush over to play with me. 

Today, on social media, I have noticed a proliferation of BFF posts.  Several acquaintances of mine post pictures proudly proclaiming, “I love my BFF!”  Such pictures are posted more often than I had sleepovers back in Trenton.  Here’s the thing: in each picture – it’s a different person!  My acquaintance + a different person each time = BFF.  Having a BFF in every social media picture seems to be THE social marker of 2014. But, how is it that BFF has devolved to a moniker for everyone?

Best Friend was a title not to be taken lightly.  Add the “Forever” component to that title, and it seems even more exclusive to me. In any case, the idea that everyone in your Face Book photos or who follows you on Pinterest is a BFF has gotten stuck in my craw. These people are not all BFFs; some aren’t even friends.  Let’s face it: we all have “followers” whom we don’t know at all and “friends” whom we struggle to recall.

Let’s strive for precision in language.  Is everyone really your BFF?  Best Friend Forever seems so permanent, and we all know that life ebbs and flows; moves happen, things change, and a Melinda can turn into a Rhonda or the other way round faster than we think.  So, it seems to me that labeling everyone we have a margarita and a selfie with as BFF is a linguistic extreme.  Will the guy who cuts me off in traffic then become a WEF (Worst Enemy Forever)?  

I’d like to think I don’t have any arch nemeses anymore; however, I do have some dear friends.  They are all important to me despite the fact - or perhaps because of the fact -  that I don’t use the BFF label.  A deep breath and a true appreciation for the varied roles that all of our real friends, neighbors, colleagues, and acquaintances play in our lives is more valuable than the latest “Love my BFF” shots because at the end of the day, how we think about and label the people in our lives is actually pretty important.

Diets, Juicing, and Exercise - Oh My!

It’s January 10 today, and you know what that means: the two-week rush at the gym is almost over, but I think the Weight Watchers and NutriSystem commercials will continue for another 7-12 days. What is it about a fresh calendar that puts us all in the weight room and on the rowing machines?  The New Year inspires people to live better and be happier, and for many Americans, that adds up to the gym and an eating plan.  But, what if working out a bunch more doesn’t make you happy?  What if replacing meals with grainy shakes in unnatural flavors (spinach-kiwi-lime-kale-banana-flax-blueberry, anyone?) doesn’t tickle your taste buds? 

The New Year brought us the “polar vortex” across the nation, but at the same time, a good number of friends were posting inquiries on Face Book about the best shake recipes, Beach Body Challenges, juicing techniques, and Brazilian Butt Lift groups. Being the subversive friend that I am I posted “Caramel Macchiato” under the shake suggestions; the workout challenges prompted a comment something akin to “How about a stroll to the bar for a pint?”  Yeah, I’m supportive like that.

I have friends who are just recently – as of the New Year – really into juicing or green shakes or eliminating carbs after noon.  In fact, one of the carb eliminators was middle son.  He announced after the holidays he was going to not have any heavy carbs after a certain point in the day.  That’s fine with me, so I told him, “Just tell me what you want to have instead and write the stuff you want on the grocery list.”  This is the son who has been a vegetarian/pescatarian since he was five.  I’m used to dietary accommodations; it would be hard to faze me.  After about a week back at school, he determined that carb elimination is unrealistic for him – just as so many of us determine that three hours a night at the gym and rising forty minutes early in the morning to juice the organic fruits isn’t for us. 

I also have friends who are not just athletes – they are triathletes.  They are those who run the  marathons, do IronMan events, throw in a half marathon for “fun”, and train for 50K events.  They are those who look forward to the weekends not to relax, but to do all the normal stuff (rake the yard, trim the hedges) as well as a quick 15 mile run in the morning, and then on Sunday, you can find them riding an easy 60 mile hilly bike path.  It is a lifestyle that demands planning and desire and support and time.  I admire these people.  I would like to be more like them, but alas, I am a mere mortal.

I’m not against working out.  Like so many others, these New Year’s posts remind me that I can be more active and healthier.  But, at what cost?  I texted with my sister (a 20-year personal trainer and exercise instructor) about this.  I lamented the crowdedness of the gym, the indooryness of the treadmills, the cost, and the time spent to gain or maintain even a modicum of health.  You see, I have things that I want to do, things I must do, and then there’s the gym.  As my sister pointed out, doing the gym even minimally to get that modicum of health will enhance all other endeavors.  She’s right, of course, and I should re-evaluate my time, I suppose.  She also went on to say that if people would eat decent foods when they are hungry, stop eating when they are full, and have treats occasionally, they would be happier and healthier.   

What is it about this time of year that inspires health crazes that fizzle out?  When I look around at the new juicers people got for Christmas, and the crowded ellipticals at the gym I’m a little sad.  I suppose some people are doing these things because they very truly want to and they are getting joy from these new endeavors.  But also as sure as some are zealously enjoying sweating on the stair machine, there are double that many that are trudging through because - well, just because it is the New Year.  They have embraced media and peer pressure to do something they really don’t want to do in order to be someone they really don’t want to be.  I know this is true because I was that person.  Doing anything because it’s the plan someone else has for your life doesn’t just not work - it’s sad. 

Be who you are.  Work out when and if and how you want to; eat salads, juice kale, or have a hamburger.  And, whatever your resolutions or ideas are for the New Year and beyond, remember that life is short, you get only one, and you need to plan accordingly.

Cheers!

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Today is the second to last weekend before Christmas. I don’t want to go out.  Stores will be packed; roads will be jammed.  As we all know:  Christmas is a commercial holiday – at least in part.  And, time is at a premium during this season.  We need time to shop, to bake, to decorate, to buy presents, to wrap presents, to plan, to send cards, to cook, to entertain, to be entertained; if you are a student, you also need time to study and take exams.  If you are a teacher, you are writing and grading said exams.  To all of the seasonal madness, you must not forget the laundry, grocery shopping, pet care, bathroom cleaning – whew – what are you supposed to do?  Where is all this time supposed to come from?

Middle son didn’t mean to, but he reminded me in the past few weeks.

Right after Thanksgiving, we went on a college visit from Georgia to Pennsylvania.  A twelve hour trip if you don’t stop for a Coke or the toilet.  Three days: one up, one there, one back.  On the way back, I mentioned that I had some friends in Virginia.  Son looked at me and said, “Well?  Let’s stop and visit them.”  I hemmed and hawed – I didn’t want to intrude on them; it was two hours off our intended path; they might be busy; we needed to get home. The whole thing came to this:

            Son: “When did you last see them?”

            Me: “1990.”

            Son: “Well, it’s time, don’t you think?”

These friends did not only want to see us, but they prepared lunch for us.  We hugged, talked, shared stories, and youngest son even got a piano lesson with a professional musician.  It took a few extra miles and one hour to bridge 23 years. 

It often seems easier to just click “like” on Face Book or post a meme that says something like “Share this if you love your family and friends at Christmas.”  This is especially true if one is introverted and likes home more than out.  (That’s me.)  Son unwittingly reminded me that face-to-face is better than Face Book. 

Like others I know, I often leave things until the last minute. After missing a family birthday some years ago, my mom said to me, “You know, Laura, birthdays and Christmas…they are on the same days every year.  You could plan ahead.”  I try.  But, I leave things until the second to last minute.

When one is rushed, it is easy to go through the holiday parties and gift wrapping robotically.  When that happens, we can end up feeling empty, tired, and frustrated.  When we feel badly, we don’t enjoy the holidays as we would like.  We don’t take the detour to see our friends.  Instead, we find ourselves saying, “Well, let’s go so we can get this over with,” about our holiday gatherings. 

Often admist our holiday rushings we hear and heartily agree with reminders to slow down and enjoy the season.  But we don’t do it.  Too much to do – too little time.  But, what amount of time to bridge a friendship?  To connect with colleagues over Jenga and wine?  To have cookies and watch “Charlie Brown Christmas” with our kids?  To reconnect over sandwiches and music?  The best gifts are those we make ourselves.  Make some time.

‘Tis the season.

Lists and Herpes

My Face Book feed has herpes.  Someone out there has decided that life and all of its good things are best accessed when they are seen in lists.  These lists circulate on websites, are shared on Face Book, tweeted, and sent in those FWD:FWD:SPAM emails that litter our inboxes.  Lists have become the herpes of the internet lately. They are easily passed around, a little itchy, and hard to get rid of.  To wit:

20 Things You Should Never Do In Your Twenties

15 Things To Think of Before Applying to Med School

50 Places Everyone Should Go Before They Die

62 Ways to Stay Married for 62 Years

10 Things That Drive Men Away

44 Mindsets That Make Your Forties Rock

11 Don’ts To Land Your Dream Job

The list (pardon me) goes on.  Who decided that life or any part of it can be boiled down to an enumerated set of suggestions?  Have you read these lists?  Buzzfeed is the worst perpetrator, but not the only one by far.  These lists masquerade as real wisdom and real communication. Granted, many of them are humorous.  Many of them are accompanied by GIFs or memes – Jennifer Lawrence and Disney princesses feature prominently in all sorts of such illustrated lists. 

Despite the glibness of such cyber profferings, I am worried.  Are there people who are taking notes from such boiled down advice?  I suspect so.  Even more worrisome than actually taking list-based advice seriously is the evidence that this trend is contributing to people’s inability to hold a conversation beyond anything numbered and limited to five sentences.  I base my concern on students’ reactions to conversations that extend beyond five minutes or writing that extends beyond numbered sentences.  Actually, I base my suspicion on many people’s inability to read a whole email or to have a conversation that doesn’t involve listyness.

As a course of my job, I send emails to a wide variety of constituents.  I strive to keep most professional correspondence to a salutation, a one sentence greeting, 2-6 sentences of information or inquiry, a thank you and a sign off at the end.  The number of times that I have a response from a person who asks me a point of information that was included in the original email is astounding.  Unless information is presented in very short forms – think tweets or status updates – many people seem lost.  They get lost in words, verbs, and subordinate clauses. 

I suppose it doesn’t help that I teach writing and read long books as a matter of course.  I also find lists woefully inadequate – I find myself wanting to hear the discussion behind each item on the list.  I want to talk about the “what ifs” and “but alsos” that inevitably belong with each item.  It seems like the listyness of current life is inhibiting conversation.  I have also seen a fear of response and depth among people. 

Let’s look at a couple of examples:  I often have a student come to me with a list of questions.  That’s a good thing.  That means he has thought through some issues that he wants advice on or conversation about.  Now, he will sit in front of me and say, “I have some questions.”  Okay.  Once he has shared his first item, and we have addressed the issue, he moves on to the second item.  Often, the second item is related to the first.  So, I connect the second item to the discussion or resolution of the first item.  We have to come back around to a conversation that happened about 68 seconds prior.  They can’t do it.  The connection is all too often lost.  If we can’t stay on item #1, resolve it, and then move on, we are in trouble.  Many people are having trouble connecting ideas and continuing a conversation.  If things are not an enumerated list, conversation falters. 

Another example:  I was in a meeting recently where a proposal that would have a reaching impact was presented.  It was presented well.  At the end of the proposal, there was an opportunity for questions or discussion.  No one had anything to say.  No questions to ask.  It was a meaty proposal.  No one had anything to ask.  The list had been read.  It was time to close it and move on to the next.  Even though the presentation was well done, there should have been some more discussion.  After talking with a few colleagues at that meeting, it seems like they avoided a conversation that would have been more complex than numbered ideas. Why?  

One more, just to prove the point:  there is a game going around Face Book where you like a status and the "liked person" assigns you a number.  You are then obligated to reveal that number of interesting facts about yourself in your status.  Another list.  About yourself.  Things that you care about or that are part of you - all boiled down to a list. 

Having a conversation of depth can be difficult, taxing, sometimes contentious, but it is worth it.  Reviewing a proposal or relating one idea to the next or examining that which masquerades as life advice are all good things.  This kind of communication takes time.  It’s not just scratching an itch, but it is much more satisfying.  Lists may help organize life, but real life is messy and not easily enumerated.  Go ahead and read as many lists as you want, but when it comes to real conversation this week, don’t number your sentences.  

Wait, What?

Every now and then I come across something, someone, or some comment that totally throws me for a loop.  Not often, mind you.  I am the kind of person who you tell your life story to in the grocery line.  I guess I just look sympathetic; and, I do that mirror listening thing without thinking about what I want to tell you about myself or trying to insert my own stories into yours.  (Yes, being introverted helps here, but I’ve got it down pat.)  Also, I’ve been teaching for twenty years, so to really, truly shock me is a formidable task.  Gay?  Cool.  Don’t know what you want to do when you grow up?  Join the club.  Want to move to Montana and live as a hermit with only books and a case of beer?  Have fun!  Confused?  Me, too.  Lost and just need a hug?  C’mon in.  In love with your cousin’s best friend’s ex-girlfriend’s dog?  Okay.  Dislike your parents and hate your friends?  I’m your sounding board.  Really – you cannot shock me.

But, just when I know I have heard it all and seen most of it, I’m blindsided.  This past week I was talking with a group of women.  To be precise, I was listening to a group of women talk. I did not know all of them; several of us had just met for the first time. The age range was 40-70. Topics ranged from marriage to children to in-laws to pets to jobs and back again.  At one point, one of the older ladies suggested, “I guess it’s about having a dream.  I mean, you have to have something you want to do.  A goal.  A dream. I’m retired and I still don’t have enough time to do everything I want to do.”  In less than half a breath a younger woman piped up, “Maybe that’s my problem.”  We looked at her expectantly.  “I mean,” she continued, “I don’t really have any dreams except to just be with my husband.”  Wait. What?  She went on to iterate a couple of dreams he has, but she concluded that comment with, “All I really want to do is spend time with him.”

Now, you’ll all be glad to know that I beat down the feminist in me that wanted to lecture her on losing her identity in a man.  I also shushed the counselor in me who wanted to tell her that she needed to do some kind of guided imagery in order to visualize who she wants to be.  You’ll also be relieved to know that I did not allow the reader in me to quote all sorts of literary ideas about becoming your own person.  And, yep, she did it.  This forty-something woman shocked me.  It really seems to me that hanging your one dream on another human being is a recipe for tragedy.

I don’t know lots of things “for sure,” as Oprah puts it, but I do know for sure that if you have one dream that you assign your happiness to and it  revolves around another person, you will be disappointed.  That kind of pressure will doom a relationship and poison a friendship.  My dream depends upon you?  No.  Who – male or female – thinks that wrapping up the sum total of all of your dreams into one person is a good idea?  Her dream is just to spend time with her husband.  Ancillary to cultivating herself as a human being and cultivating her own interests and dreams, it’s not a bad thing to want to spend time with one’s husband.  In fact, many would argue it’s quite excellent to want to spend time with loved ones.  Let me reiterate:  that’s her only dream.  Her one dream for the rest of her life hangs upon another person. Her one dream for the remaining 45 years on the planet is to spend time with her husband.  That’s it.  Wait. What? 

So, the husband-time-spending thing aside, this woman has only ONE dream for her remaining time in life.  That’s it.  One.  That One is a progression of a role in a family. Only that.  I know women here in Augusta, and I assume they exist all over this country if not the world, whose mission in life has been and continues to be:  graduate high school, go to college, find a husband, marry, have children, join the country club, take family vacations, help the children graduate high school, help the children go to college, help the children get married, help the children have children, enjoy the grandchildren and eventually die.  And, yes, before you ask, I have taught and counseling high school girls whose life plan is some iteration of the above sequence.  In 2013.  Yes, there are girls and women whose whole existence seems to bizarrely rotate around others.  Where, oh where, is the desire for personal development?  For cultivating your own talents?  Women, if you are reading this, you have hundreds, if not thousands, of opportunities to make a life for yourself.  And, most certainly, you may want it to include marriage or family life and many of your desires and dreams and talents may dovetail into family life, but please, oh please, I beg you not to roll up all of your dreams into what your husband wants to do or into some future children. God forbid he becomes ill or dies or leaves you – please have some thoughts about what it is that YOU want.  You and only you. What are your dreams for yourself? If you were totally on your own, what would you do to develop your interests and achieve your dreams?  Wait, what?

Yes, I know that what I’m suggesting might be a lecture for human beings, but it really seems especially applicable to women who roll up their own identity in a husband and family or who minimize themselves for any other person.  Who knows what will happen?  Please develop yourself – individually.  Surely you have interests and talents and desires for your own development.  Children grow up.  Children move out.  Spouses are not extensions of who you are – they are (hopefully) wonderful  additions to who you are, but you must always be you first and foremost. 

Perhaps this lady was simplifying what Jean Webster suggested, “I'm going to enjoy every second, and I'm going to know I'm enjoying it while I'm enjoying it. Most people don't live; they just race. They are trying to reach some goal far away on the horizon, and in the heat of the going they get so breathless and panting that they lose sight of the beautiful, tranquil country they are passing through; and then the first thing they know, they are old and worn out, and it doesn't make any difference whether they've reached the goal or not.”  Perhaps my new friend wants to just enjoy time with her husband, and I do wish her all the happiness doing so, but I still say she needs a goal.   “It must be borne in mind that the tragedy of life doesn’t lie in not reaching your goal. The tragedy lies in having no goal to reach. It isn’t a calamity to die with dreams unfulfilled, but it is a calamity not to dream. Something for ourselves that we are working towards.” (B.E. Mays) 

And that, my new friend, is a tragedy that can be avoided.

An Attitude of Gratitude - Sort Of

A few weeks ago I was out with some friends for a drink and a snack.  During the course of this outing, everyone was on and off their phones – texting with absent spouses; responding to teen children who were out doing their own thing; or checking in with the babysitter of smaller children.   I was not above the obligatory phone check.  However, when I returned home, I was perusing Face Book, and I noticed that one of the friends who had been at our outing had updated her status:  “Having a great time with friends – love them all!”  The time stamp was in the middle of our time together.  Huh?  Why did she post this for others to see rather than putting the phone in her purse, and telling us all how much she was enjoying herself and how glad she was that we were all together?  I was flummoxed.  But, she is not alone. 

A similar phenomenon circulating on Face Book is appreciation memes.  Such stickers are a way of showing love or appreciation for someone in your life.  And they are almost as annoying as the if-I-can-get-one-million-likes-I-get-a-new-spleen-or-new-puppy memes.  To wit:

What?  How about if you love your daughter, call her have a meaningful chat?  If you love your son, take him to dinner?  Proofread his college app for him?  Take your daughter to the movies? I don’t believe my mom has ever posted this kind of thing, but I kind of hope she doesn’t.  I know my mom loves me, and I bet you do, too.  You don’t need this kind of cheesy virtual sign to remind you.  And, if this kind of sign is the first inkling you have of your mother’s love, there is something amiss. 

How about this one:

Hey, if you really love your husband, I bet I can think of a few actions he’d rather be the recipient of than your liking and sharing this.

Now, to add insult to injury, it is November again, and I have another thing to be curmudgeonly about:  thankfulness statuses on Face Book.  Some of my friends and many acquaintances will spend the next twenty-eight days posting one thing a day that they are thankful for.  They started out big yesterday:  “I’m thankful I’m a child of God” and “I’m so thankful for my wife and children; they are the lights of my life.”  But, these attitudes of gratitude will peter out by mid-month, and I may have to block some people: “So thankful for plastic grocery bags to scoop the poop into” and “Love that we have indoor plumbing.”

Before you label me a year-round Scrooge, let me clearly point out the problem here. We all need to be grateful in an on-going and active way, especially for the big things. If you are reading this, it is likely that you are educated, have a roof over your head, and reasonable nourishment for the foreseeable future.  You are better off than approximately 73% of the world’s population.  You need to act on your gratitude.  Why confine expressions of thankfulness to November? On Face Book?  And, how can one really sum up one’s love and gratitude in a four line status?  Are the recipients’ hearts warmed? Or do you simply feel better about the eleven months in which you take these people and things for granted?

I think electronic media has shrunk our ability to express ourselves in all different ways, and many of us have relegated expressions of gratitude and love to statuses and tweets.  Saying “I love you” is much safer through the bits and bytes that carry computerized messages than saying it face-to-face. Distance ameliorates the heartbreak of a non-response to proffered love. Furthermore, I have noticed that very few people – from the cashier at Target to my own children – don’t know how to say, “you’re welcome.”  If someone shoots them a “thanks” – that person may get back nothing, a grunt, or if they're very lucky, “no prob.”  Saying thank you should be a daily and face-to-face thing.

Now, you may argue that people move and fall out of touch.  These virtual messages are a great way to get back in touch, aren’t they?  Post a status about what a good friend he is and tag him in it, preferably with a funny throwback picture (bonus points if the picture is on a #throwbackThursday). A notification pops up on his phone; suddenly, you’re back in touch, right?  This computerized thankfulness seems to have degraded our communication skills and, seemingly, our real emotions.  It is also this kind of thing that encourages distance between people. 

If really want to thank you for something, I should come to you and thank you.  I should shake your hand.  Give you a hug.  At least write you a hand-written note. Bake you cookies? How about a sincere expression of real emotion? Shouldn’t I?  Has it become just too easy to fire off an email or a status an call it done?  Sure seems like it.

So, if you really feel you have to participate in the thankful status November thing, that’s fine. But it’s not enough.  Step out from behind the computer and actually thank people – in person.  And, when someone thanks you – say “you’re welcome” and mean it.  After all, love is an action, a verb, and it is out of love that gratitude springs.

Thank you.

A True Friend

It is rare to find a real friend. The cliché is that a real friend will do anything for you.  I disagree.  There are all kinds of real friends. And, it has precious little to do with the number listed on your Face Book page.  (I have 1013 friends, according to Face Book - I beg to differ.)

And, I got to thinking:  what kind of friends are there?  I don’t believe in fair weather friends.  If a friend is only there for fair weather, he is no friend at all.  I took stock, and I have a few friend “types” based on my own experiences that may speak to your experiences, as well.  This is not meant to be all-inclusive, but rather a sampling that may inspire you to appreciate your friend groups as much as I do mine.

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Case #1:

The friend who will stay at your hospital bedside when you are both four hours from home. He has a wife who is wondering why he isn’t getting home from chaperoning a school trip, but he stays there with you while he comforts your 9^th grade son, who is worried out of his mind, and talks your husband into actually traveling because you are about to have emergency surgery.  This friend stays there and then borrows a car and drives your son home, both of them amped up on energy drinks, and he comforts your kid the whole four hours. 

We can also add that despite what seem like dire circumstances to you, this friend has the presence of mind to take a hilarious picture that lives on despite the fact that you were dying in the moment. 

(Yeah, that’s me in the bed.)

Case #2

This is the friend who was there in college.  You were both there and are both here now.  Perhaps one or both of you remembers more of college than the other, but you have a common history that is undeniable.  Perhaps that history has more than one narrative of unpleasant fraternity mixers and desperate study sessions.  Maybe you also have had a game or two of racquetball during which you both needed to blow off steam.  The kind of steam that can only be blown off if one yells the “secret” word to one’s sorority really loudly, really late at night in a really deserted athletic center. 

The cool thing about this friend is that she shows up years later.  And then even more years later.  And, in fact, you realize that she has been a strength and support even though you thought she was invisible.  It has actually been a mutual support.

Case #3

There is a friend who you never really thought was a friend, at least not in high school.  You were doing your thing and she was doing her thing.  And never the two did cross.  Except maybe in advanced English class or world psychology or some other esoteric subject whose teacher fancied himself rather fancy.  This is one of those friendships that takes up and puts down and keeps an even keel.  It’s fun.  It’s clever.  It finds common ground in adulthood.  It is as real as one that has been there all along.  In fact, it has been there – you just didn’t realize it.  Maybe she didn’t either.  But, no matter – it’s there now. 

Case #4

This is the friend who has always been there.  Through thick and thin.  Sure, you’ve let each other down, but you can pick up tonight even with a six month silence sitting there between you.  She talks.  Then you drink.  You listen.  Then you drink. Then you switch.  Then you drink some more.  This is the tried and true friend.  Perhaps since high school.  Perhaps since college.  Maybe since last year.  You know. She forgives.  She knows.  You forgive.  You have history.  it’s all there. 

Case #5

There is a friendship sprang from professional endeavors; we work together.  We have common interests in (choose one or more):  politics, children, spouses, social agendas, social interests, books, music, movies, TV shows.  We have drinks when we can.  We text.  We chat.  Sometimes we compare parenting notes, but often we are on different pages there.  Sometimes we have different books.  Still, we respect each other’s approaches and ideas on family life.   

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I appreciate each of my friends – as individuals, as types in a category, as just plain friends.  In Russian there are many words to designate “friend” – it all depends on the person’s relationship and perceived relationship to the speaker.  Of course in any language, there are as many “types” of friends as there are days in a year.  But, no matter what categories you use – or, if you give everyone their own category, it’s the time of year to take stock.  In the end, it is the friends and the relationships that make our lives. 

Control

The other night I was invited to a friend’s house.  Out of the blue.  The kind of invitation that makes you think, “Who canceled and how far down on the I-guess-we-could-invite-her list was I?”  Still, I was free and so were the drinks, so I went.  It was a small gathering – the kind of gathering that evokes Jordan Baker’s Gatsby musing:  “At small parties there’s never any privacy.”  Indeed there wasn't, but we were an amiable group and all of the people (dog and baby included) chatted and enjoyed shared company for the evening.

At one point a woman began extolling the virtues and coolness of a new gadget she had been using, the UP by Jawbone.  This bracelet-like device that tracks exercise and sleep habits, calories burned, and probably a few more things that I’m forgetting right now.  It is sleek looking and plugs directly into your iPhone or iPad to convert its data into charts and graphs.  She demonstrated her new device for about thirty minutes, then she wandered off to make loud and uncomfortably intimate inquiries of her teenage son who was busying himself with reruns of The Big Bang Theory on television.

The next day, I recalled that my friend Kathy has a Jawbone device; I proceeded to text her, inquiring about it usefulness.  Kathy thought the device was interesting and useful, but she doesn't always wear it as a matter of fashion.  Next was my sister, a trainer and a person who, unless under extreme duress, has not missed a day of exercise since 1982.  Her response to the capabilities of this device:  just eat a little, exercise a little, sleep a little.  In short, why buy a device to track or remind you to do this?  She posed this question:  if someone told you they wanted to read 20 minutes a day and had purchased a device to help them do this, what would you say?  She went on to assert that all one really needs to do is put it in one’s calendar, and do it.

My sister isn’t wrong, but people feel the need to control things.  The modern person seems to think that controlling everything is best. If people didn’t feel this way, the Jawbone, helicopter parenting, and these house alarms with cameras that you can access from your phone would not have been invented.  Despite such advances (not including the helicopter parenting), people are at a loss as to how to control their worlds.  The idea of self-control does not seem to apply here, so the idea that one can simply put it on the calendar and do it goes out the window.  This has to do with the inundation of information that people receive.  Surface information.  We hear about things, or we see them in our Facebook feeds, or we skim a headline, and voila! we are “informed.”  The more we are informed, the more we feel that we must do.  We must eat organic and local; we must exercise 30 minutes a day; we must spend 20 minutes a day reading with our child; we must call our parents daily; we must track our sleep patterns; we must know our cholesterol.   It’s all a bit much.  Add to this that we need to be informed about current events and bake cupcakes for the fund-raiser tomorrow, top it all off with remembering usernames and passwords, and it gets hard to breathe. It is a bastardized keeping up with the Joneses. 

Once we have information and perceived requirements for living, we must get everything scheduled and organized and planned.  And, then once that’s done, we are in control.  Whew.  We can relax and follow the schedule.  Except.  Except the information is ever-changing.  So are circumstances.  Who hasn’t gotten the week planned when a beloved spouse throws a wrench into the plans with a business trip or a wild hair to finally fix the bathroom tile?  Maybe an illness or a broken toe curtails our planned dog-walking.  Perhaps a long-lost friend calls.  A child comes home with a half-frozen, starving kitten that needs to be nursed through the night.  Such occurrences madden so many people and stress so many relationships because such occurrences are not the calendar.  The thing is: human beings want to be in control.    The ever-changing refuses to be controlled.  People don’t like that.  If I don’t know what’s going to happen next, I can’t be in control, and if I am not in control, then things might get hairy, and if things get hairy, I may react in an unpredicted way, and if I react in an unpredicted way people may see the real, deep-heart me, and if people see the real me…  Aha!  Perhaps the heart of this control issue is here: have human beings become afraid of being human?  Would we like to be slightly agitated or a sniveling mess?  Can we go to work overly tired because we spent the night on the phone with an old friend in distress?  Is it okay to skip a workout to meet a new friend?  If it’s not in the plan, then perhaps we shouldn't.   If you stick to your carefully planned day, then you will know what is going to happen and avoid unforeseen emotions or stresses.

Real, human responses to crises and opportunities are not planned ahead of time.  But we don’t want to be vulnerable to forces outside of ourselves.  Our school motto is “To be rather than to seem.”  But, that isn’t the real world‘s motto.  The real world would like things to seem okay, because if everything seems okay, then the seeming has to eventually become reality, right?  In order for things to seem okay, we need to control many of those things – preferably all of them.  But, being in control is exhausting even with a smart phone and a sleep-tracking bracelet.

I am particularly good at getting organized, especially at the start of a new school year, but I sometimes stink at the follow-through.  I have a smart phone to help me get and stay organized, but let me be honest, sometimes I just play Ruzzle and text friends…okay, most often I just do that. If whatever devices, from jotting things down on the calendar to tracking your sleep and steps with a mini-computer, help you to make plans and live the life you want to live, then “it’s all good.”  Still, rather than using such things for control, perhaps we should use them for organization, and maybe we can all remember to embrace this messy, unplannable life that is at its happiest when unannounced guests come by and the best laid plans and sleep patterns get thrown out the window. 

No Apology Necessary

“I’m sorry.”  Two words that are expected to heal a multitude of hurts.  Well, that and about 2-6 months of apologizing over and over again, as well as the natural tendency many humans have to beat themselves up after a misstep, even when it’s been forgiven and forgotten by the offended party.  The idea that we must all keep apologizing is unsound.  There are certainly some things you apologize for.  Other things you should never apologize for.  And, some, well, it can be a slippery slope. 

Recently, I visited a friend in the hospital.  She was recovering from invasive surgery the result of which required painkillers which in turn caused “loopiness” and exhaustion.  Less than 24 hours after her surgery, I was sitting in her room with her.  We were doing the normal hospital nothing-and-everything chatting that people do when they are simply passing time together.  Inside of three hours, this lovely lady apologized for:  being in pain, closing her eyes, wincing in pain, not having her phone on, not talking much, and needing to go to the bathroom.  She also apologized to the nurse for her IV getting infiltrated.  Goodness, I think if you have major surgery, you are totally exempt from the need to apologize for anything until you have regained your strength and your senses.  (Note: This may take 4-8 weeks, lots of sympathy and love, as well as several pints of ice cream.)

Years ago, my sister was hospitalized after a car wreck.  It was serious.  ICU-serious.  Everything that we did and talked about was life-and-death serious.  After she died, I remember crying a lot.  Not only at the hospital, but also at home.  At work.  At Walmart.  Everywhere.  I found myself saying, “Sorry.  My sister just died.”  What?  Why was I apologizing?  I didn’t kill her.  I had nothing to be sorry for.  William Carlos Williams has a poem that prescribes crying and wailing as a proper mourning technique.  People who are grieving should cry.  Really, they only should apologize if they don’t cry when a loved one has died.  When did it become required to apologize for loving someone and missing them and shedding tears when they are gone?

Civility yes.  Mindless empty apologies?  No.  I am also tired of hearing people apologize for talking to me on the phone.  In my profession, I deal with a variety of  client bases.  These groups include teenagers, their parents, colleagues in our school, and college representatives.  People from all of these groups will call or email me with legitimate questions or requests, and almost always I hear, “Sorry to bother you but…”   or “Dear Ms. Johnson, I am sorry to email you about this but…”  Huh?  It’s my JOB to provide you with information and support – why on earth are you apologizing for asking me to do my job?  C’mon in and let me know what you need.  Say thank you when I’ve provided it and begone!

There is a linguistic fad that is now passing (thankfully!) that is a “sorry” in disguise.  People make an observation about other human beings and their actions, usually noting something undesirable and then tagging the comment with “just sayin’.”  For example:  “People should totally use their turn signals when driving. Just sayin’.”  Or, “He doesn’t need to text me twenty times a day.  Just sayin’.”  No. People should totally use their turn signals.  It’s a safety issue.  It’s the law.  And, he probably doesn’t need to text you that much.  No need to soften these comments with implicit apologies for noting the assininity of the human race.

Other times the phrase “I’m sorry” is a catch-all.  If a co-worker inquires how I am in the morning, I might tell my colleague I’m not feeling great.  The standard issue phrase that many people pull out is “I’m sorry.”  We all know that this phrase actually means, “I care enough to utter two words but not enough to ask you anything further; in fact, I must now go, so contact me again when you are feeling better.  Ado, plebeian.”  It’s okay.  It’s not truly an apology and I don’t truly need one from that person.  I mean, the colleague in question didn’t make me stay one hour and two margaritas too long at book club last night.  Also, when someone mentions a death in the family, we can see the traditional “I’m sorry” brought out.  Here, of course, what we are saying is that we are sorry for our interlocutor’s loss.  In place of a more intimate inquiry, this seems legitimate use of the phrase.  Now, you might argue that the aforementioned colleague is also sympathizing with our condition.  Not so.  In the latter instance, the situation is out of the respondent’s control, and an “I’m sorry” stands as a legitimate response to a such a loss.   

So, if you wrong someone – and I mean truly wrong someone, not just push your cart around them in the grocery store or put your McDonald’s cup under the ice dispenser before they even step up to the drink machine – by all means apologize.  Do it sincerely.  Be sure to do it in a way that does not negate the apology:  “I’m sorry, but…” does not count.  “I’m sorry.  It won’t happen again.  What can I do to make this up to you?”  Something like that.  But, if you’ve had surgery, are asking for something you are legitimately entitled to, or commenting on the foolishness of people in general, no apology is necessary.

E-volution

Is it possible to be invited to a dinner party -  know what to bring, when to arrive, how to get there, who else is going to be there, and what time the event will end without ever talking to the hosts?  Yes.  People send e-vites or create Facebook events for everything from christenings to bachelor parties to wakes.  And, one can get the vital information, mapquest directions, and arrive on time (or fashionably late) without ever talking to anyone else planning to attend.  Very convenient.  How much easier could the whole thing be?  Well, we could all just skype a party and not ever have to leave our own homes.  That's probably been done, but unless you live across the world from your entire social network, I don't want to know about it.

A commercial for one of the for-profit colleges boasts, "You can go to college in your pajamas!"  Great.  How valuable is that?  The best part of college was just removed from the equation.  Well, if you can get a degree in your pjs, why not attend social gatherings, conferences, or even funerals via our monitors?  It certainly would take the pressure off - the never ending questions of what to wear, how to tactfully leave when the host's neighbor turns boorish, and how to navigate the twisty-turny subdivision roads are all eliminated if we can just pop up our laptop screens. 

Jeans or a skirt?  Just put on a nice top and focus your camera correctly, and you can have sweats and bunny slippers on from waist down.  Mort's drunk too much again?  Just fake an internet snafu; then, pop in a movie and order a pizza online.  Too hard to drive 20 minutes to socialize?  No problem - you can attend from your living room.  Heck, you can even be in bed.

About two months ago AJ was writing a scholarship essay that asked what the greatest difference between his generation and my generation is.  He pondered for a while, and ended up with a paragraph that asserted that his generation does not know how to communicate well or effectively face-to-face.  They can type, text, and email until the cows come home, but meaningful human-based communication is being marginalized, and may eventually lead to a generation of socially inept, even socially panicked human beings.

Apocolyptic?  Perhaps.  But, there is some truth here.  Events in the past month have had students texting me (ah, the irony!) about how to deal with death and helping their friends deal with it.  In essence, the great equalizer called the cyber-hermits out into the sunshine of face-to-tear-streaked-face communication.  To everyone's credit, they did wonderfully when crying together, comforting each other, and holding hands.  Perhaps these skills are not learned, but actually hard-wired into human beings?

I'd like to think so.  But, I would like to see more face-to-face events, communication, and hand-holding.  Doesn't it mean so much more to have a friend say to you, "I love you,"  rather than sending  <3 over a text?  I don't consider myself a troglodyte - as evidenced by this blog, as well as my Facebook page and smart phone.  I do think, however, that those of us over the age of, say 35, have an obligation to teach those that come after us the ways of the human world.  Let them choose our ringtones and desktop backgrounds, and we can show them how to comfort a friend, throw a party without Facebook, take a hike without a GPS for directions, and give a hug that is more than {{}}.  

It's spring time - get out there and meet people.  Have a picnic with no phones or ipods.  One of my friends had this by her Facebook profile picture (yes, I appreciate the irony of this reference):  "Quit staring at my picture and get out there and live your life."

So, let's all live our lives - use our computers, sync our ipods -  but never forget that the most important things in life are not things that have a battery life of 6-10 hours.

Arts and Crafts: Or, Why Not to Go Greek

         People who know me now are infinitely surprised to learn that I was in a sorority in college.  Furthermore, when I go on to tell them that indeed, I was not only in a sorority, but was also pledge class president, scholarship chairman, ritual chairman, and chapter president, they nearly fall over in a faint.  Obviously, I do not have sororitiness to my present demeanor.  In fact, whenever an about-to-go-to-college-and-I’m-a-little-intimidated-about-leaving-home-and-high school friends-age person asks me for my thoughts on or recommendation for the Greek system, I have to say I discourage it with all my being.  However, it was an odd requirement of being in a Greek chapter that led to my actually being able to teach my mother something.

            In our sorority, we had family systems, as I suspect many sororities used to, and perhaps still do.  As a new pledge, you got a pledge mom.  Ostensibly, this person would show you the ropes, much like a professional mentor in the workplace.  Upon being initiated, which was after a semester of pledgedom, your mom had cross-stitched you a pledge pillow.  A remembrance, of sorts, of your childhood within the bonds of sisterhood.  After receiving your pledge pillow and full membership status, you were expected to adopt a child immediately or at the next rush, whichever came first.  I did, in fact, get a pledge daughter from the next fall rush and commenced to helping her navigate the intricacies of sorority life: 

            “Yeah, the party is Friday from 8-11.”

            “Umm, the kitchen quits serving breakfast before 2 pm.”

            In addition to such overwhelming complexities of living in a sorority, I had to figure out what cross-stitching was and find a way to make a pillow from it.  Now, one might think that someone who had taken some amount of Girl Scouts and 4-H in her earlier life, as well as having a mother who sewed and mended probably everything I wore in childhood, and who owned – well, I’m not sure, but more than three sewing machines – would have some kind of aptitude for such a mundane task as creating a token of sorority life.  Well, cross-stitching , it turned out, is not complex needlework.  Putting the pillow together properly, turning it inside out, stuffing it, and sewing the suture firmly shut actually required a PhD in civil engineering.  Nevertheless, Lisa received her pillow in due course.  I have the sense that it wasn’t until the following school year that she got it, but I can’t be sure.  I mean, between the parties, chapter meetings, schoolwork, and parties, who has time to sew?  Once I got it down, though, I realized there was potential here. 

            I stitched something for my mom for some holiday – I don’t know what it was or what holiday it commemorated.  I do know that she loved it.  (Since becoming a mother myself, I happen to know that loving any handmade craft from your child is part and parcel of the mom contract one signs upon giving birth – page three, paragraph 8.  “Mommy, I made this out of mud, dog poo, and grass – it’s sculpture of you!!”  “I love it!  I’m putting it on the kitchen window sill right next to the painted rock and remains of last year’s dandelion bouquet!”)   That I had discovered a craft that was beautiful, well, at least attractive, probably stunned my own mother.  I had never exhibited even the slightest artistic ability.  Well, I had taken ballet and performed adequately enough to garner an occasional solo at a showcase or two – but really, art and I are oil and watercolor.             

            Not long after this initial gifting, Mom asked me to show her how it was done.  Now, anyone who knows anything about crafting knows that basic cross-stitch can be done quite successfully by blind monkeys.  And, just now, I have realized that I am sure that my mother - who graduated high school at the age of 16 and went on to college, a teaching job and raising three daughters (the list could go on for pages) -  did not need my instruction in order to figure out how to cross-stitch.  Nevertheless, I showed my mom how it was done and – for the sake of my dignity -  I am going to maintain that I taught my mom how to cross-stitch. 

            I went on to make one more pledge daughter pillow, employing the help of a few engineering majors when it came to stuffing the cursed thing.  Mom, however, has gone on to create literal works of art with cross-stitch.  All seven of her grandchildren have an intricately woven framed picture commemorating the day of their birth.  I would venture to guess that anyone who knows my mother or whose mother or grandmother knows my mother has one of her works of art somewhere in their home.  I know I have at least ten of mom’s needle-art in my home. 

            So, it is with some pride that I take partial credit for the hundreds of pieces of art that my mom has created, as a result of my teaching Mom to cross-stitch.  And, if that’s too much of stretch for you, well, just remember – you can learn cross-stitch without joining the Greek system.  Just come see me.