A New Year

I've never been much of one for making new year's resolutions, so I've decided not to start.  But it seems like every now and then a person should take stock of where they are and where they are headed...not much sense in looking back at where you have been.  So, maybe tonight I'll do a little stock taking, in private, with a good drink, a warm fire, and a calm heart.

One thing I can say about this year, I have encountered more kindness than I thought possible, more care and concern, more love, and more friendship than I knew existed.  Oh, but wait, that is looking backward!!

I will look forward.

Living in the Gray

                                               

It seems like one of the developmental tasks of adulthood is coming to recognize, accept, and maybe even appreciate the "grayness" of life.  Not every decision is black and white, not every experience is totally positive or negative, no person is all good or all bad.  My acceptance of grayness has been maybe longer in coming than for most.  I've always wanted to know the answer, to seek some absolute truth, to have a definitive solution to a problem.  Long ago I learned to love my gray hair. Now I've found I'm beginning to enjoy the inherent ambiguity and uncertainty of life...well, sometimes.

My new problem is that we tend to have fewer ways to talk about the middle. Our vocabulary emphasizes extremes.  There are so many words for anger:  irate, incensed, outraged.  There are words for calm; peaceful, serene, tranquil.  But what do we call something inbetween...."okay"? "Happy"?  They seem weak and ineffectual.  Other choices might be ambivalent, conflicted, uncertain, accepting.  But they all have a somewhat negative connotation.  I guess we have experimenting, exploring, discovering, at least those words convey some sense of wonder and excitement, but I think they also imply that there is an endpoint, a treasure at the end of the road.

It is not only language that troubles me, but gestures as well.  What is there between a handshake and a kiss? Is it a hug?  How do you convey a sense of closeness and friendship without a sexual connotation? With non-romantic interests a hug works well, if you are a hugger.  But what about that in between category of "possibles"?  People living in your gray zone. People with whom there is no romantic intent (yet), but with whom there is emotional,but not physical, intimacy (at least not now).  A hug might give the wrong impression, but doing nothing feels wrong, too.

I think if we, as adults, are to truly embrace our gray, we need better words!!!

Sitting with dying

I spent several hours today sitting with dying.  B, one of my hospice patients, who I've been visiting since January, is near death. She is only vaguely aware of my presence, but I am so acutely aware of hers.  Sitting by her bedside, holding her hand, watching the rapid pulse at the base of her neck, listening to the ragged breaths, I think about her life.  At 96 she has seen great changes, suffered tragic losses, celebrated wonderful moments. Her daughter remarked at one point, "It's like childbirth. There is suffering to bring life into the world and suffering to leave it."

Sitting with dying is alternatively challenging and calming.  Sitting still, awkwardly leaning over a bed rail to hold a hand, makes your back ache. Listening to the labored breathing tempts you to hurry the process. At the same time, there can be a peace. The quiet words of reassurance, of compassion, of caring, resonate in your very soul. The shared stories, the tears, and even the laughs, remind you of the life you are living.  Your focus narrows on the friend in the bed, but your heart feels open to the whole world.

Time in a bottle...

Remember the song, "Time in a Bottle"?  Recorded shortly before Jim Croce died in a plane crash, it was a big hit towards the end of my high school years.  The song speaks of the wish to have more time and the joy of having found someone with whom you would like to spend every minute of life.  Written as a love song to his wife, it seems prescient of him when your realize that only a few years later he would die tragically.

I think of the term slightly differently, though.  There are moments of my life that I would like to hold in my heart forever; days, hours, minutes that I would like to freeze in time. I sometimes look up and think, "This is good."

I have my share of disappointments.  Shattered dreams, dashed hopes, days of confusion and despair.  But, I have moments like today, with my sons at the table laughing and joking.

It is a day for filling bottles.

                                              

Leaving things behind

I once read a travel advice column that advised packing old underwear when you go on vacation and then throwing the underwear away, giving you extra room in your suitcase for the trip home.  I guess this could be useful advice, but underwear doesn't take up that much room and, if you travel often, won't be much help unless you are buying a lot of new underwear.

I've spent the last few days at a conference and am packing my suitcase. I'm bringing home all my underwear, but the program book, the random handouts and brochures, my badge, even the complimentary conference tote bag will be staying in my hotel room.  I can easily leave them behind.

There is a great song by Nanci Griffith, Things I Don't Need.  The refrain goes,

These things I don't need that weigh me down
Things I don't want but still keep around
I woke up today and made up my mind
From now on I'll leave all those things I don't need behind

It makes me think of what gets left behind on a journey. Of course you leave money, and some other material possessions.  But what else?  It seems you can leave things you no longer need, things you may have found have outlived their usefulness in your life.  Old thoughts, old habits, old feelings. But, maybe sometimes, you have to leave behind things you will miss.  Old relationships, old security objects, old desires and wishes.  Not everything that gets left is as simple as discarded underwear, some things you leave are harder to let go of, harder to see as burdens.  And maybe they aren't burdens, maybe they are joys and hopes and wishes and safety.  And maybe you still have to leave them.  And it will be sad.

Mist

Every now and then most of us experience a mist of melancholy settling over our lives.  The cause may be obvious, but more often the reason is unidentifiable.  When it happens we are annoyed, but not disabled. We carry on, do our jobs, go to lunch, sweep the floor.  But everything feels a bit less; less happy, but less sad, too.  Life is less important.  Does anything really matter?

If we are lucky we have learned the strategies for misty lives--talking, writing, walking, meditating.  But more or less the answer is to wait. We wait it out patiently, or impatiently, but waiting nonetheless.





                                                 

Classics

I was at the grocery store yesterday, mentally calculating the cost of my purchases, when I happened to glance at the candy rack.  Now, I am pretty traditional when it comes to candy. Hershey's with almonds is my go to favorite.  Milky Ways are too creamy, Snickers too sweet, and while I like peanut butter and chocolate, for some reason the combination is not appealing, ruling out the Reese's cups.  There is something about the combination of almonds and chocolate, though, that balances the sweetness and crunch in just the right way.  I usually take a bite, carefully not biting around an almond, and let the chocolate melt in my mouth until I'm left with a whole almond....

I knew our store had a few "no candy" checkout lanes, and I've been through the "international candy" lane before. But, yesterday I must have wandered into the "classic candy" aisle, a place I didn't know existed.  There, nestled in its wire rack, was a stack of Bun candies.  I can't really call them bars, because they're round....sort of.


Bun candies come in three flavors, vanilla, caramel, and maple.  They have a flavored center and are covered in chocolate and peanuts.  My mother used to eat Bun candies, I think the maple flavor was her favorite.  As a kid, I wasn't that fond of them, maybe that is why she preferred them--no competition!  Along with the Bun candies were Mallow cups, Charleston Chews, Beeman's gum, Coconut slices, and Chuckles.

Standing there, with my cell phone, credit cards, and cart full of food, I felt like I was 4 years old again, crying because my sisters each had 2 nickles and I had only 1 dime.  And only my Mom could make it better.

I reached over to the rack, picked up a Bun candy, and carefully set it on the conveyor.

What is it about fall?

I can't say I have a favorite season, but for the last few years I've appreciated fall more than in the past.  Something about the nesting instinct, I guess.  Fall seems like the time to burrow, to lay in provisions, to gather up fuel....Yesterday's fire inspired me to go out and collect kindling this morning, I felt a bit like a squirrel gathering nuts.  Is there a deep reptilian or mammalian part of our brain that makes us want to prepare for winter?  A drive to bolster ourselves for the coming cold?  It was not a particularly pleasant morning, weatherwise.  But it wasn't raining and I was comfortable with just a sweatshirt.  Walking through the woods, picking up sticks, I could imagine myself as some pioneer woman.  I remembered the Girl Scout term for low dead tree branches, "squaw wood."  People have collected wood for centuries, prepared for the winter, gathered and stored their food.  After picking up sticks, I successfully started the snow blower.

First Fire

Have my first fire of the season going. It might be a little early, but the day was overcast, windy, and drizzly.  A fire felt right.  It seems like just about every problem can be made better with a nice fire.  I'm on the couch with a cat and a blanket, a glass of wine and soon, a good book.  Now I'm thinking maybe I should have ordered more wood. I forgot how nice this is. I'll need to pace myself this winter, enjoy a fire like a guilty pleasure--something to be savored and saved.  

Janet Yellen

I am not an economist, but I work with some of them.  I don't know Larry Summers or Janet Yellen, until a week ago the two leading candidates for the job of Chair of the Federal Reserve.  But, not long ago I heard an interview where an analyst was comparing the two.  He described Larry Summers' strengths and weaknesses, then turned to Janet Yellen, noting that "her husband is a Nobel prize-winning economist."

I ask, what does Larry Summers' spouse do for a living?  Why isn't that just as relevant???

Here is a link to my economist friend's view on the two...

http://www.forbes.com/sites/leonardburman/2013/09/16/janet-yellen-and-the-glass-ceiling-at-the-fed/

Centers

I've noticed when mowing my lawn that no matter where I start or what pattern I use, I end up in the same spot.  I figure it is the geographic center of my lawn.

What makes the center so special?  We use so many words to describe that place--center, heart, core, middle.  We want to get to the heart of a problem.  We need to center ourselves in stressful situations.  We try to identify the core issue.

I wonder what happens when we focus on the edges, on the fringes, instead.  What if instead of looking for the heart of a problem we looked for the toe?  Could we learn anything from the toe?  What if instead of centering ourselves we allowed our emotions to run out of control?  What if we looked at peripheral issues instead of core ones?

We lick and lick to get to the center of the Tootsie Pop (unless we cheat and bite).  At the center of a Lindor's Dark Chocolate Truffle is a creamy rich chocolate filling.  In the middle of a Blo-Pop is bubblegum!

I just wonder what our world would feel like without the center...like a glazed donut I suppose....
   
     
                                       

The size of Chicago...

I heard a news report a few days ago about the large Rim fire near Yosemite in California. The newscaster was describing the area now engulfed in flames by saying, "It is an area the size of Chicago."  Later I saw a headline, "California battling a wildfire the size of Chicago."

Why Chicago?  Do any of us really have a sense of how big Chicago is?  What is included in this area...the city limits?  The metropolitan area?  Does this really help us grasp the size of the fire?

And, who decided on this comparison?  Did they have a list of cities by area and went through looking for one roughly 225 square miles in size?  What else is that size?   According to Wikipedia, Tucson Arizona is roughly the same size, why not use that for the comparison?  I have no better sense of the size of Tucson than I do of Chicago...or twice the size of Tampa, Florida...or half the size of Los Angeles, California.  At least LA is in the same state.

We often use these geographic comparisons.  Belarus is about the size of Minnesota.  Does that help me visualize Belarus?  Maybe a little...at least I know it is smaller than the U.S.

Given the extreme lack of geographic knowledge most of us have, myself included, I'm surprised we rely on these geographic comparisons so often.

Where is her ?

I'm not a developmental psychologist, and I'm sure there are all kinds of theoretical explanations for why children prefer certain games, but I'm struck by the joy children have in games of hide and seek.  Babies and toddlers start with the simple peek a boo.  Put your hands over your face, pull up a blanket, duck behind a corner...any such game will usually bring squeals of delight.  Babies will start to imitate, hiding their own eyes, covering their own face.  The fun of learning to understand that the other person will still be there, even if eye contact is broken, feels like a splendid accomplishment.  Object permanence I think Piaget called it, one of the fundamental developments of infancy...even though I can't see it, it still exists.

I've written before about the next step in this toddler game, a simple hide and seek http://profhimes.blogspot.com/2012/03/here-i-am.html where a young child will stand out of sight and ask you, "Where am I?" As you pretend to search she becomes more insistent on being found until finally she will come into view and proclaim, "Here I am!"  Now, the child is in control.  She knows that she is still there, even when you can't see her.  She enjoys the surprise you have when she magically appears from behind the chair.  How did she do that?  She is the master of herself.

Moving forward we get to the full "hide and seek."  Someone counts while the other person hides. Now, both parties know what the game is.  But, it takes awhile to learn this game.  Early on the child will say "You go hide under the table."  Are they not quite ready for the uncertainty?  What if you hide and they can't find you?  When they hide their excitement makes it almost impossible for them to stay quiet.  As you go through the rooms looking for them, within a few seconds you will hear "Here I am!" as they jump out from their hiding place.

Playing with my nearly 4 year old friend yesterday I had found an excellent hiding place.  Clara looked high and low and was getting a little anxious in her search.  I heard her say to her mother, "I see her bag and I see her shoes, but I can't find her face!  Where is her?"

Where is her?  Her what?  Her body? Her mind?  Her being?  Of course, it is a simple grammatical error, using "her" instead of "she."  But think about why that error occurs.  My body, my being, my face belong to me, just like my shoes and bag belong to me. I own myself.

So, where is her?  Her everything is right here.  Look a little longer and you will find her.

Mom's box of memories

In my office there is a box under a chair in the corner:

In that box are old photos, cards, newspaper clippings, and assorted stuff.  There are childhood pictures of my grandmother, father, me and my sons...a generational catalog of kids, parents, and relatives. It is an odd accumulation of things taken from my childhood home and my adult home.  Right now it lives under my chair, waiting for a new home. It doesn't carry all my life, not even close. But everything in there is important to me, whether it is a picture of flowers in my grandmother's garden or a scrawled thank you note from my sons to my mother, their grandmother.

Yesterday I needed to go to my storage unit to get some camping gear. Since I have not packed the unit very well, I had to dig through things a bit to find everything I wanted.  Along the way I ran across a small plastic box, about the size of a shoebox, containing cards and letters I had sent to my mother as a child.  There were Mother's Day cards, a Christmas card, a few other notes from school and camp.  Even a plaster of paris impression of my 3 year old hand.

The most recent items are some letters from my first trip to sleep-away camp, written almost exactly 47 years ago.

I knew the box was there, I've looked through it before, but finding it again yesterday was a sweet moment. What struck me this time was one card with a few odd line "drawings."  An early attempt at either people or flowers.  There were no personal identifying marks, but on the back my mother, in her perfect script, had written, "Chris." Clearly she had noted this at the time, 50 some odd years ago,  had thought to remember who had made this gift for her. 

I have no idea what the occasion was, where or why I made the card. Its construction was before my memory.  But, seeing my name attached to it made it clear that my mother remembered it. Why did she keep this one card?  Was it the first one I made?

I know I can't remember making most of those cards, but I do remember that girl, Chris.  I remember what it was like to be her.  She was okay. Confident in her abilities, firm in her resolve, and loved by those in her life.

Be gentle

I was with some little kids the other day as they petted a kitten.  Over and over I heard the mothers admonish, "Be gentle," as the kids tentatively reached out to touch the ball of fur.

"Be gentle." As a parent I remember saying those words to an older brother anxious to hug his younger sibling, maybe a little too tightly. 

To a young boy picking up a toad for the first time to feel its skin.  To a kid elbowing her way into the line to go down the slide.  To a little helper at the sink washing berries.

"Be gentle."  A command always directed at behavior towards others. Be gentle to those you touch, you help, you care about.

It seems we often forget to tell them that there is a time to be gentle to yourself as well.  A time to allow oneself some leeway, some comfort, some acceptance. A time to extend some gentle touches inward.

Identity crisis

I have no sense of style. I admit it.

My difficulties in the make-up, clothing, and hair departments have already been documented.  But this lack of skill extends to interior design as well. I walked into Pier 1 yesterday and was nearly as panicked as I was in Sephora.  There are a million things, sparkly, colorful, bold, simple.  The choices were overwhelming and I had no sense of what I wanted.  What goes good together?  What matches?  What will "pop"? I want my home to look nicer, but I have no idea how to accomplish that.  At a very basic level, I have no idea what I want it to look like

I know people who collect things; owls, cows, windmills, salt shakers.  I don't.
I know people who can walk into a room and change two things and make the whole place more inviting. I can't.

I like my things to have some meaning.  Things that were gifts or associated with a happy memory. Not just stuff I bought at a store.  On the other hand, I'd like my home to look coordinated--matching towels, sets of dishes. I don't think I'm terribly materialistic, but I want things to be nice.  Some people seem able to accomplish that, have a home that looks beautiful and put together, without looking like an interior design studio.  I wish I could do that.

I don't want to live in an interior design magazine. I want to live in a home. But a home that feels good, feels like me.  But, who am I?

I am not modern:

         

I am not country:

           

I am definitely not Victorian:

 

I do not like balls in dishes....



I don't like velvet paintings...



I like sunflowers....



 

But not this many....